


The Detective's Dragon

by 9240Lena



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dragons, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Alternate Universe - Mythology, Bickering, Case Fic, Domestic Fluff, Dragon John, Dragon! John, Dragonlock, Dragons, Dragons In London, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Human Sherlock, Magical Artifacts, Magical London, Magical Realism, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mild Language, Mind Control, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Necromancy, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Drug Use, Protective John, Sassy John, Shapeshifting, Slow Build, Spells & Enchantments, Supernatural Elements, Transformation, Triggers, Urban Fantasy, Warlocks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-27
Updated: 2015-05-08
Packaged: 2018-02-22 20:17:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 50,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2520443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/9240Lena/pseuds/9240Lena
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock stumbles upon a interesting golden dragon at a weekend market after running away from Lestrade and his team with crime scene evidence.</p><p>Sherlock got to know him as John.<br/>If only he knew, what it seems to be a start of a wonderful companionship is the start of events that brings them further into the world of magic, and the unknown. </p><p>In response, Sherlock does what he knows best; learn, deduce, and thrive.</p><p> </p><p>  <em>  <strong>(On indefinite hiatus, for more info pls visit my profile.)</strong></em></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure where this will go.  
> You will see Sherlock quotes (quite a lot, actually, they are too fantastic not to include) here and there, but twisted to fit the story.
> 
> Not beta'ed. Not Brit' picked. All those awesome, familiar quotes are not mine but the mistakes (grammar or whatnot) if you do spot one while reading are mine. I hope it's not cringe worthy and spoil the whole mood, because seriously, a small boo boo can do quite a lot of damage.

“Sherlock!!!”

A man barreled down the narrow weekend market street, indifferent to the annoyed shouts of store owners and public around him as he pushed his way through the crowded cobbled path, knocking wares off the tables and overturning baskets of apples, startling chickens into flight.

“ _Sherlock!_ You ass! Come back here! We’re very sorry. No, no! He's not a criminal…”

The man ducked behind a store selling impressive imported cloths. Apparently…counterfeit goods. The color of the purple, priced for its unique shade was manufactured abundantly. The texture too coarse, the patterns badly done.

_Ugh._

_Boring._

_Dull._

“Sherlock!!!!!”

The dark haired man jumped up from his hiding place and ducked down the nearest alleyway on his left. He jumped over a dozing tabby cat and skidded to a stop before an eccentric store. The crowd here was less dense. Rather, the small street was empty. The store before him was the only store in sight, located at a dead end. The walls around it painted a dull white, cracked from age.

Rapid footsteps echoed down the alleyway and without thinking Sherlock ducked into the store and fell to a crouch. The store owner was nowhere in sight, and Sherlock was thankful for that. He didn’t need anyone coming up to him and divulge his location.

He held his breath as the group pursuing him stopped outside the cluttered entrance of the exotic pet store he found refuge in; hiding behind an extensive metal cage housing a winged slumbering creature.

With the shadow casted down upon him, he surveyed the interior of the store. With a lone bulb hanging above the ceiling, Sherlock took in the cluttered place. It was made up of brick, tough practical choice, with wooden shelves lining the walls, stacked with glass bottles of feed, hooks from the ceiling hanging onto smaller cages housing birds and small mammals. On the ground there were a dozen medium sized water tanks, housing aquatic animals with air pumps supplying oxygen. Behind him, were the reptiles, and further back, the much more prized creatures, which from his spot, could not identify.

One thing he did note was that the animals were silent, deadly silent. They would have passed for taxidermies if they didn't move, or blink.  

“Did you see where he went? I swear he came through here.”

“Ugh. What the hell is that? It’s black and _HUGE!_ ”

Anderson. As always, could always rely on him to ask stupid questions.

“Hey! I’m asking about Sherlock! We have to find him. He can’t just run with evidence, just because it’s interesting…” A ping from a mobile phone, “Oh buggering _fu-_ ”

“He could have gone inside? Exotic pets. Just like his style ain’t it?”

Sherlock was about to make a leap for the exit and push through the group when a rumbling sound thundered beside him.

The sound resonated through him and shook the ground, rattling the glass jars on the wooden shelves and startling the other creatures in the store. The cacophony of animals making their own distinct sounds of panic was enough to dissuade the group outside from entering the hell hole of screechy madness.

It didn’t help that the distinct scent of gunpowder has started to flood the air, and the rumbling pitched to a thundering growl.  

Sherlock watched as the horse sized slumbering creature opened its gigantic maw, an electric blue charge gathered at the back of its throat, rolling, turning, and tumbling into a ball of orange energy, the heat of it, Sherlock could feel it pricking his skin.

There was a sound of something leathery being stretched open, Sherlock watched amazed as a pair of massive wings unfurled upon the creature’s back as much as it's capable of in the cage, it only managed to stretch open a little before the edge of its wings clanged against the steel bars, filling the cage with wings and white hot heat.

Through the gap between its wings, Sherlock observed the hard spines at the back of its neck curving up in aggression, the leathery appendage at the sides of its head drew closed acting as a shield for its ears, and its sturdy horns gleamed in the dull light of the store.

_Dragon. A smaller species compared to its cousins._

_A fully grown adult golden male: Color coat hidden by layers of dirt and grime. Sand granules: Desert grain._

_Armored hide: retain heat. Deflect weapons._

_Claws look sharp despite inactiveness: Fought battles._

_Injured, left wing: Healed._

_Star burst wound: thorough exit._

_Pattern: bullet wound._

_Unable to fly: Grounded. Psychosomatic._

_Desert sand, armored coat, acutely sharp claws, injured, bullet wound: War dragon._

_Could have escaped from cage, but didn’t._ _No relations left._

___

___

_Interesting._

“Oh shit! _Christ!_ Run!!” Lestrade shouted then ducked down in a zigzag pattern down the alleyway, “ _Run!_ ”

At the sound of panic in his voice, those around him complied without question. If he said run, they will run. And running they did.

As they ran further away, the distance between them and the caged dragon widened, but it wasn't impossible for the powered shot of a dragon to miss, yet the creature closed its maw and swallowed the ball of fire back into its rotund middle with a puff of grey smoke.

Sherlock was silent as the great creature turned to face him, wings folding.

A pair of sapphire blue eyes met his; an unusual color for a dragon, its nictitating membrane drew down once, and slipped up, its black pupils silted, focused on him.

He didn’t speak as the creature shifted in its great cage. Its long spiked tail clanged against the thick metal bars then slipped through the gap to lie curled before Sherlock’s feet.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” Sherlock asked, the dragon opened its jaws, and then closed, and he swear he saw surprise crossing its face.

The dragon huffed, exhaling a puff of grey smoke in response.

Sherlock smiled, “You can understand my words?” Then laughed when the dragon gave him a look that said, _are you an idiot?_ as much as the dragon could muster with fixed facial expressions, “Fascinating.”

The dragon yawned, and then curled up in its cage, laying its head on its folded front legs, blue eyes watching the human before him twirl around, mumbling to himself.

“I’ve come to a conclusion.” The human said with glee, “I’m going to save you.”

The dragon lifted its head and tilted it to the side in confusion.

“Oh, don’t be dull. I’m going to save you from this hell hole. Isn’t it so boring here? You’re not exactly fond of this place, right? Wait. Don’t answer that. I can deduce it from you. I collect expertise and you are one of them. Would you like to come with me? I can guarantee you a better place than this cage, but I can’t guarantee you food. You have to find it on your own. This,” Sherlock gestured to his body, from head to toe, “Is just transport. I feed it when I need to. Oh, and I play the violin, and sometimes I don’t talk for days on. Would that bother you? Potential flat mates should know the worst of each other.”

The dragon blinked, then shook. Sherlock watched as fumes of grey escaped from its nostrils, its great head shaking up and down; its spiked tail slapping the metal cage with metallic clangs.

“You’re laughing at me. What’s so funny?” Sherlock mused then frowned, “Am I wrong?”

The dragon stopped and regarded him firmly, holding his gaze then shook its head.

Sherlock’s thought process stumbled before he caught himself, “So you agree with me? You would come with me?”

The dragon nodded then clanged its tail against the metal bars.

“Owner!” Sherlock shouted towards the back of the store. He didn’t have to wait long before a middle aged man appeared through the hidden doorway at the back, his clothing rumpled.

“What do you need?”

“I want him.” Sherlock pointed to the dragon.

“Oh, if you want him for flying, I’m afraid it can’t. It-”

“I know wounded. Enough of banalities. How much?”

“I can let him go for sixteen hundred pounds.”

Sherlock stared silently at the man.

“Fine. Fifteen hundred pounds. I can go no lower. This dragon gave me tons of trouble when it first came in.”

Sherlock pursed his lips and then trailed his eyes down and then up the owner.

_Illegally selling endangered animals under a pseudo name. Cautious, weighs risks._

_Did something wrong that the law would frown upon, which is why didn’t emerge when police are in front of store. Not the kind to commit violent homicide, so, has evaded years of taxes. Obvious._

_Lives in an apartment, has two dogs._

_A bachelor, but sleeps around, having an affair with a married woman, while sleeping with another._

_Just had sex at the back of the shop._

Sherlock wrinkled his nose at that last deduction.

“I know this dragon stayed in this cage not because it couldn't escape, these metal bars are considered nothing to it, but because it has nowhere to go, he couldn't have caused trouble for you, so how about I take him off your hands for free?”

“What? Why would I in my sane mind do that?”

Sherlock hummed, and rated off a stream of deductions at a speed of a Shinkansen, “So I won’t have to be forced to go to the authorities to inform them that you have under declared your income and invaded years of taxes and is selling endangered species under a pseudo name. Imagine the amount of backlogged penalties you have to pay maybe even serve ten or more years of jail for both offenses, which would be just horrible for you. You wouldn't want to be away from your current lover whom is staying in your apartment, and the affair you’re having with a married woman, and I can see you just had sex with her at the back of the shop, balance of probability says it’s the married woman, since you can’t bring her back to your apartment, before you ask how did I know. There is a faint lipstick stain on your neck, your clothes are rumpled, mostly around the arms, and crotch, and the blaring sign, might as well have a blinking neon arrow pointing to it, you have forgotten to pull up your zip in your haste. So, either you’re an idiot who thinks with his penis, or a man who has a functioning brain and is capable of making the right decisions. In this case, which is alarmingly obvious.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“Oh, what gave it away?” Sherlock smirked, eyes glinting in the dim light, “Information is a weapon, and if wielded properly, I can either be your ruin, or your ally. Your choice.”

The owner gaped, blinked, and then sucked in a deep breath, “F- _fine_. Do I have your word you wouldn't go to the authorities?”

“I will do you a favor and not report you. Hence, you owe me.”

“B-but, but, the dragon!”

“I’m saving you the money for the feed you’re buying him. This is also a favor. Would you like to owe me a two favors? Hm. There would be day I would require your services since you import wildlife on a quarterly basis.”

“Fine, don’t report me and then you can take the dragon. And I owe you _ONE_ favor. _ONE_.” The man emphasized, “Now what do you need from me?”

“At the current moment, your contact details, and the dragon,” The owner huffed and recited his number as Sherlock keyed it in his phone, and dialed the number, a while later, the phone in the man’s pocket rang,  the owner took it out and showed the bright screen with his number dialing, “Good, Exotic Animals Distributor. Not a fake number. Save my number, come quickly if I text you.”

“ _Ugh._ Fine, get out of my shop.” The man tapped a few times on the touch screen then showed the detective's number saved onto the phone under the name: Sherlock Holmes, with a description describing him as _a god damned blackmailer of a businessman_.

“Very well,” Sherlock smirked and gestured to the cage, “I believe this dragon is mine. Unlock him. And we shall be on our way.”

* * *

Sherlock led the dragon out of the store without chains, despite the owner’s insistence. He made a big fuss till the owner decided it wasn’t worth the trouble and let them go, only when Sherlock yield collaring his dragon. The great creature didn’t mind to the mild surprise of Sherlock, even lowering its head and extending its neck for him to snap the collar on; a black band of leather with his information on it. Ghastly thing. Sherlock made a mental note to purchase a new, much more intricate design suited for his dragon. Possibly something golden with a purple gem. Amethyst.

If he were to be seen wandering around with a dragon, his dragon must be gorgeous. And gorgeous shall it be. But, now, a bath for his dragon is in order.

_Will the bathroom in 221B do?_

“I can’t imagine the look on Mycroft’s face when he learns a dragon living in 221B.” Sherlock turned to face the silent dragon; he forced himself to stay still as the dragon leaned down and pressed its great head against his forehead. There was a warm tingling feeling and then the dragon pulled away.

_My name is John. Nice to meet you._

Sherlock’s eyes widen at the foreign voice in his head; a warm, soothing voice, slightly raspy, but nice. He chuckled, amused, “Sherlock Holmes.”

_What do you do?_

“What do you think?” Sherlock said as he stalked down the alleyway back where he came from, he noted the horse sized dragon folded its wings as close as possible to itself and advanced through the path, a hulking mass behind him.

_I’ll say private detective. The men who came looking for you were from the Yard. They were not in uniform. Could be undercover, but one of them was wearing forensic garbs. So the jurisdiction they were in doesn’t necessarily require them to be in the presence of the public. They also mentioned evidence. So, Yard men, forensic garbs, evidence; detectives investigating crimes that involve forensics, so, homicidal crimes. But, the Yard doesn’t go to private detectives for help. So who are you? What do you do?_

Sherlock grinned at the deductions shooting through his mind from his new scaly companion, “I’m a consulting detective; only one in the world. I invented the job.”

_What does that mean?_

“It means when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me.”

_But the police don’t consult amateurs._

“When I said Afghanistan or Iraq you looked surprised.”

_I was thinking how did you know._

“I didn’t know, I saw. The dirt and grime from your hide, the coarse grain of sand, it is weathered but its different from the ones on the beach, could have been an overseas beach, but no fire dragons would go to places with large volumes of water willingly, so desert. Your claws, sharp despite inactiveness, shows you have been in a high adrenaline environment and had to use them daily, you fought battles. You’re comfortable around people, humans, it shows you are used to them, and you helped me though I didn’t ask for assistance, that says you have protected people before and would not attack unless needed to. You could have killed those Yarders, but you didn’t, you scared them off instead, shows a strong moral principal, a particular mindset. Trained to do that; military, obvious. Your left wing, though healed, shows a star burst wound that could only be caused by a military grade bullet, the trajectory shows you were hovering over something when you got shot, and when you were chasing the Yarders off, you have forgotten about the injury, so it’s partly psychosomatic, that says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic. So, wounded in action then. Also you could have gotten out of the cage easily, those metal bars meant nothing to you, but you didn’t. This means you don’t have any relations left, not here, and dragons without any relations are the ones that get sent to war. So, a war dragon, psychosomatic limp, wounded in action with military training; Afghanistan or Iraq.”

John eyed the back of Sherlock’s head and smiled. _That was amazing. And the breakdown of the owner back in the shop. Fantastic!_

“You think so?” Sherlock’s steps faltered a moment

_That was extraordinary, quite…extraordinary._

“That’s not what people usually say.” Sherlock said, resuming his pace down the alley.

_What do they usually say?_

“Piss off.”Sherlock said and grinned to himself.

John huffed and followed Sherlock down the path and into the crowded market street. Scents of various origins assaulted his nostrils, apples from North America, pineapples from the Philippines, raw honey from Sussex, imported goods from Asia- he gave a waff to expel the confusing smells fighting for his attention until he scented a familiar smell in the air, a smell of home. He was mildly aware Sherlock had a hand placed on his neck as the crowd around him stilled. He noted the men were eyeing him with distrust; the women shielded their children, and the children looking at him with wide eyed fascination.

“John.” Sherlock said, and he turned to face the man, “Let’s go home.”

_Home._

“You need a bath.” Sherlock said, and then led them out of the market place into the bustling street of London. The streets familiar, and the air rank.

He stilled.

_London?_

Sherlock hummed, “Obviously, you got discharged by the army, and it’s only appropriate to put you back in London, the place you were born.”

_How did you know that?_

Sherlock smiled at the tone of wonder in John’s voice in his mind, “By looking.”

_Where?_

“Color of your hide.”

Sherlock said as he stalked down the street, aware his scaly companion is attracting all sorts of attention, he noticed the cameras on the street has swerved round to fix upon him.

He sighed when a black sedan glided up to the side walk, “Oh for _god’s sake_.”

_Sherlock? What’s wrong?_

John inched nearer to the detective when the car door swung open.

“I shouldn’t be surprised to know, of all creatures, you would find yourself a dragon. A war dragon no less.” A man dressed in a three piece suit stated as he slipped out of the car, tapping his umbrella on the pavement. John sniffed the air and was aware of the familial scent the man was giving out. Family of Sherlock. Brother. Elder.

“Go away, you’re obstructing the traffic.” Sherlock said, waving his hand in a dismissing gesture.

The man’s face hardened, “You don’t know what you have gotten yourself into, Sherlock. They do more harm than good. A war dragon, discharged by a wing injury, a psychosomatic injury, it has PTSD. No matter how appealing it is to own a dragon, you should have known better. You wouldn’t want it to shred you like confetti in the middle of the night just because it needs a midnight snack and you were the nearest.”

John bristled at the discourtesy the man is hurling his way as if he wasn’t even there, how dare he spout such slander when the wound he gained was to protect a human being from being killed, and for his act, he got discharged. He took a bullet that wasn’t his, and all he got in return is a cage, and insults. _What insolence!_

He didn’t realize his hackles had risen till Sherlock ran a hand down his head, pressing the leathery spines down, and hushing the rumbling growl with rubs to his throat, the large cool hand grounding him to reality.

John blinked and huffed, turning his head away, but not before expelling a gust of grey smoke towards the man who shown him discourtesy, he watched amused at the expression of surprise and shock crossing the stiff face.

Sherlock chuckled and patted his scaly companion’s neck, “There you have it, Mycroft. John has shown admirable control, he could have ripped your head off for the discourtesy, but he didn’t. Good morning, Mycroft. Try not to start a war before I get home, you know what it does to the traffic.”

The man named Mycroft frowned, eyed him once more then slipped back into car, and then it glided off into the traffic. Rising to his full height, there at the top right hand corner of his eyes, John caught the twinkle of sunrays catching metal; he looked up and saw the backs of several armed snipers. He growled.

_Snipers. Roof top._

“Hm? Oh. Mycroft’s men, he would have you shot if you made a wrong move on either him, or me. A precaution.” Sherlock said as he continued the way down the street, the people clearing around him with the aid of a great beast trailing behind him.

_A precaution?! He would have shot me!_

John’s voice rang out in his head, and he almost winced at the tone, “Relax John. I have the utmost faith in you, that’s why I bought you.”

_Bought?_

_Sensitive._ “Fine. Okay, rescued you."

_Twat._

“Rude.” Sherlock commented, but not without a smile. They turned round a corner then stopped before a door at the junction of a busy street; Sherlock pulled out a key and unlocked the door, pushing the door open as he hollered, “ _Mrs. Hudson!!!_ ”

John’s ears rang with the echo of Sherlock’s shout, but before he could recover, another scream pierced his sensitive ears. An elderly woman in a purple dress stood under the arch of a door at the end of the hallway, waving her gloved hands around. He drew his ears shut and listened at the agitated conversation through muffled hearing.

“This is John.”

“He’s a _dragon!_ ”

“Well, yes. I can see that. Problem?”

“Problem!? _Young man!_ I don’t know if the stairs can take his weight!” The elderly lady pointed towards the wooden stairs. John smiled at the lady’s words, relieved that the distress emanating from her is about the stairs, not because he _is_ a dragon.

“Oh, if you’re worried about that, you don’t have to.”

“Why? _Oh no._ You _didn't._ ”

Sherlock smiled.

“Sherlock Holmes! You’ll be the death of me! If anything happens, I’ll put it on your rent!”

Sherlock smiled and turned back towards the opened door, “John. This is Mrs. Hudson, she is our landlady.”

_Time to buy into her good books._

John tilted his head in greeting, and widened his eyes, flapping his wings in addition to look cute. And it worked, apparently he must have looked like a blacken puppy with wings because the elderly woman surged forward and cooed at him, a large winged fire breathing beast that went to war.

“Come in, John! Don’t be shy. Would you like to have a small snack? Is scones fine with you? I just made a batch.”

John smiled, in what he hoped was a smile and nodded as he stepped into the threshold of the cozy flat, the carpeted ground under him was soft under his claws and he finally noticed he is leaving streaks of black prints on the ground.

_I need a bath._

Sherlock smirked, “Upstairs. Close the door, will you?”

“Right, you boys head upstairs, I’ll make some tea. But only this once, I’m not your housekeeper!” Mrs. Hudson chimed and disappeared into her flat.

John curled his tail around the door knob and pulled it close then placed a foot on the stair step, and when it didn't crumble under his weight, he placed another, and when nothing happened, he trotted upstairs with Sherlock following.

_Well, this could be very nice. Very nice indeed._ John said after nudging the door open with his foot.

“My thoughts exactly,” Sherlock said behind him, shucking off his coat.

_As soon as we got all these rubbish cleaned out._ John said as he snuffed his snout into a soft armchair.

“So I moved straight in.”

_Oh._

John looked up and met Sherlock’s gaze. _So, this is all…_

“I could clean up a bit.” Sherlock said, picking up several issues of magazines and throwing them into a wooden crate, he gathered a bunch of letters and stabbed it through the mantle with a knife.

_That is a skull._ John stated using his tail to point at the grinning skull on the mantle.

“A friend,” Sherlock said, twirling around, picking up papers, and dumping them hazardously into a box, “And when I say, friend...”

“Yoo hoo!” Mrs. Hudson chirped, stepping into 221B with a tray of food and a copy of today’s newspaper. John perked at the scent of buttery sweetness and the calming smell of well brewed tea. He padded to the kitchen where the elderly woman is shuffling beakers and measuring cups aside to settle the tray when she said, “John, you need a bath.”

John looked down at himself and then, made a huffing sound that meant ‘later’ _._ He opened his jaws and made a move to gobble a scone from the pile when a hand smelling of rose hand cream covered his snout. He huffed a gust of hot air against the hand, and his snout was swiped; almost in reprimand. God knows what the elderly lady went through for her to have the guts to swipe a dragon’s snout, but when one lives under one roof with Sherlock Holmes, John guess a dragon is nothing compared to it.

“No, bath now, food later. If you’re worried the food disappearing when you come back, there's no need to be, Sherlock doesn't eat much. Such unhealthy habits. You should help him a bit.” Mrs. Hudson chastised, “Now, go on. You’re making prints on the carpet. And I’m not cleaning it up.” She said and left.

John huffed resigned, and trotted towards the sound of water which led him to the bathroom. He made an inquiring sound as he stood in the center of the bathroom.

_Sherlock._

Sherlock appeared moments later at the doorway of the opened bathroom door with today’s newspaper clutched in his hand, “What?”

_What the hell is that? Is that human toes?!_ John stared at the floating severed appendages in the tub.

“Ah _yes._ It’s an experiment. No matter,” Sherlock said flinging the newspaper down the hallway and stride pass John, and turned on the showerhead, “Now, I assume you need help bathing.”

_Well, obviously._ John sputtered when a deluge of water came spraying over him, he glared at Sherlock as the man stood with a hand at his hips, the showerhead in his hand, looking bored. _I’m not going to get any cleaner if you do that._

“Oh, is that so?”

John huffed and the heat of it made the water evaporate into steam.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you think? Promising? This could be a one-shot. But, if the demand is there, I could post more. Let me know what you think!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A slightly shorter chapter than the first, with slight profanity.  
> As usual, not beta-ed, not brit-picked. 
> 
> //(Image found on the web.)  
> -Image attached at the end-

The bathing session concluded twenty minutes later, with John pleased and squeaky clean from top to bottom; even his claws gleamed white in the light. He felt so much better, but he can’t say the same for the detective. Sherlock was thoroughly engulfed by the hot steam of the shower, making his clothes damp and his hair curlier than ever, the man didn’t look pleased.

But at least, he didn’t shake the water droplets from his body. Sherlock should be grateful.

_Now, food!_  John cheered, skidding to a stop before the dining table, and gobbled a scone up from the pile.  _This is heaven on earth. Mrs. Hudson is a saint._

“I’ve always assumed dragons are carnivorous.” Sherlock said, appearing at the arch of the doorway, in a new ivory white dress shirt, he was pulling on his suit jacket as he stalked into the kitchen, “There aren't many dragons in London.”

_Omnivorous, I make do, it's difficult to find food out there, can’t be picky._ John said as he devoured another buttery scone. _Of course you don’t see them; most of my kind is living in the mountains or out there in the desert. Dragons are usually used for fighting wars. Stronger and much more resilient. You should have seen the skies in Afghanistan, the amount of dragons there, appalling; it difficult to tell friend from foe. You could expect a raid every sixty five minutes, if you’re lucky; you survive, only to get attacked again. It’s a never-ending cycle._

“Have you killed your own kind before?” Sherlock asked, and he saw John tense, the stiffening of its back and the clenching of its jaws.

John took a shallow breath. _It’s a kill or die situation out there._

“So you have. Did you?”

John frowned.  _Why does it matter if I did or not? It’s war. Of course I killed._

When Sherlock remained silent, looking at him with that steely gaze of his, he huffed and continued.  _I’ve fought with dragons before, mostly those on the enemy side. I didn’t expect mercy, and hence I wasn’t merciful when I laid the final blow. Truthfully, when I watched them die, on more than one occasion as they bled out in the sand, I think it was a kind of mercy. They get to get away from the place, and sometimes…I envied that. But I didn’t feel any remorse for their death, I didn’t know them,  just another dragon I killed in the war, they attacked to kill and I defended myself and my company._

“No. There is more. The choice of your words, something…something happened,” Sherlock said, utterly still and poised, he tilted his head slightly; observing, “Something personal. What is it?”

The voice in Sherlock’s mind hesitated for while, and then continued, this time John’s voice was shaking, as if he is trying hard to keep the emotions from leaking into his voice but failing.  _I faced a few dragons I knew before on a location change, they were my hunting buddies, good dragons. They were on the enemy’s side, and at that moment they were overpowered, I have eight fire dragons and two human squads with me, armored and armed with plenty of ammunition. With so many pairs of eyes around me, I couldn’t just let them go without an explanation nor risk them going back to base and report our location and apparent destination, and when they sacrificed themselves, by sacrificing, I meant they killed themselves right in front of me, so I didn’t have to do it; it was some sort of a...last dignity I could give them. I thought I’d never get to sleep again. In some way, I really did kill them, their blood was on me the moment we crossed paths._

Sherlock hummed in contemplation, and nodded, “I see.”

_No you don’t._

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at the clear definite reply.

_I’ve only known you for a few hours but I’ve observed you, and you aren’t hiding it. Your speech, your actions, you’re a man of cold reason, very much so. I’ve already seen you break people down into facts, data, and you expose their actions, their personality, their habits; you don’t see the person behind all that. It just further proves that you rely on your vast intelligence, your raw instincts. And this…what I’m telling you is about feelings, emotions… guilt._

Sherlock noticed the way John’s eyes lost some of its light before he blinked, continuing on. Blue orbs glinting with intent, and the briefest shine of pain.

_You wouldn’t understand it, not if it’s to manipulate others to doing your biding; your highest priority is to obtain results within the shortest span of time. You wouldn’t spare a person’s feelings if it gets you what you want in the end; you won’t dally, like a gunshot, stealthy but loud; instant. You wouldn’t, couldn’t sacrifice all of that, the certainty that you’re right, because sentiment holds that back, it makes one think twice, it makes you doubt yourself, and you abhor that, I guess, it also frightens you._ _When we first met you told me everything_ _else_ _is just transport,_ _you hold your mind above all, and you don’t care about anything else_   _._ _So don’t tell me that you understand, not when I’m dying over here, haunted with the memories of what I’ve done, the things you can’t even possibly begin to understand._

Sherlock was silent as John literally dissected his whole persona, he really didn't understand it, why John felt the way he felt, he only said that because he gathered that, that was the right thing to say at that moment; he had distanced himself from emotions since young. ‘ _Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock._ ’ Mycroft would say every time he got hurt emotionally. Then one day he took up Mycroft’s advice, he stopped hurting when he stopped caring.

But when John’s voice in his head faltered and shook at some point, he felt a spark of concern; the golden dragon sitting on the white tiles of his kitchen was an epitome of strength, if John felt disturbed, he thinks he should be too. John’s features were straight, hard, the only visual sign of his internal turmoil was in his eyes; shimmering blue orbs moist at the corners and reflected a certain kind of indescribable pain.

A vivid strike of memories scored across his mind. Sherlock once felt like that.

And that was when Redbeard died. And he wasn’t by his side.

Loveable, loyal, trusting Redbeard, followed Mycroft into the vet’s room and never came out alive. Mycroft told him Redbeard was too sick, and putting him down was a kinder choice. Sherlock didn’t believe him, how can that be kind? How?

Redb-

Sherlock cleared his throat and locked the memories away, he gestured to the plate of sweets, “Eat, you must be hungry; it’s making you go bonkers.”

There was a moment of silence before John shifted, tail curling round to rest at his feet.

He huffed, and then turned back to the plate of scones. The buttery crumbly sweetness served as comfort food and made him feel a slightly better by eating his sorrows away.

“It seems you know me better than I expect you to.” Sherlock stated changing the subject as he poured a cup of tea for himself, he took a sip, and the hot liquid burned its way down his gullet, startling him into focus, “Do you see what I see? Or is it a draconic ability?”

John gobbled a scone and tilted a cup to drink the tea.  _Strong instincts, I polished it when I was in the army. Used to gauge whether the enemy is really attacking to kill, or just wanting to pillage our goods. Visual signs, speech, scent. I guess it’s not really different from what you do. The way that you can look at a person and just solve them like that. Never really questioned myself how I figured that out, as long I can get my platoon out of sticky situations. I just…know._

“Hmm. Fascinating, I've a theory to test.” Sherlock said, “But I need your assistance.”

_Assistance?_ John asked as he filled with mouth with the remaining of scones on the plate.

“Yes, you've proved to be more than an asset. You can be really useful to The Work.” Sherlock said, taking another sip of his tea.

_You try to make me sound indispensable…But really, what's your point?_

“I consider you as an investment, a big one. I can tell that the aspects of The Work interests you,” Sherlock smiled, settling his cup back into its saucer, “You wouldn’t object if you could possibly add value to my work right?”

_Huh…You’re now trying to make it sound so noble so I'd be bought. Eh. Not really working. You haven’t flattered me enough. Go on, continue._

Sherlock snorted in derision, “John, really? Flattery? I thought you, of all dragons would be above that. You seek the bizarre, deviate from social norms, which was why you went to war, for the excitement of something new. And that is why you agreed to come with me, I’m an abnormality. A freak as people so poetically put it.”

_Right. Okay, good. Erm. I wasn’t really expecting that, but I think that’s the most unique, one of a kind of flattery I'll ever receive in my life. Just so you know, Sherlock, I came with you because I find you interesting, extraordinary; you’re not an abnormality, and if you really believe you’re a freak then you’re more than an idiot._

Sherlock smiled as a rare bloom of warmth sparked in his heart and he advert his gaze, “You’re a strange creature.”

_Right back at you._ John cocked his head to the side. _You said you need my assistance. What do you need?_

“I need more data on dragons. Since I’ve not been in contact with dragons till now, it seems appropriate that I do now.”

_Okay then, firstly, how much do you know about us?_

Sherlock frowned, then made his way to the sitting area, settling down in his black leather chair, he took another sip of tea, “Natural hoarders, possessive, territorial, intelligent beings. But it seems it varies between dragon species.”

John huffed, curling into a lump before the unlit fireplace, at the feet of Sherlock’s chair, his stomach full with scones,  _Quite right, and?_

“Keen sense of smell, and hearing.”

_And?_

John chuckled at the look of mild indignation on the detective’s face; a low rumble.  _Fine, what you said is right._

He watched amused as Sherlock smirked. _We're not exactly a mystery as we've more things in common with humans than you'd like to believe. Except we've wings, and we breathe fire. Oh. And before you ask, not all dragons breathe fire; some dragons breathe ice, horrible, rude beings, always trying to freeze me. The ones I like are the ones whom are capable of manipulating earth, they are much more peaceful. I love the berries they grow atop their horns; I only had the pleasure of consuming such a berry once._

Sherlock’s eyes widen and he abandoned his tea, leaning forward he asked, “Berry? How did it look like? How does it taste? What does it do? Does it heal certain injuries? Where can I find it?”

_Hold on, one question at a time. It looks something like a…eh…black raspberry, yes, small, round, dark purple. It’s slightly sour, well, it does rejuvenate me after a while, but healing properties…I’m not exactly sure. I wasn’t wounded at that time. It only grows atop the crown of their heads, around their horns in green lush twining vines. They only get to harvest it once in a year, during the autumn season, before that, the vines would be littered with flowers. Small, white flowers that smell amazing, you can track an earth dragon miles away by that scent alone. Before you ask, the flowers have its uses too. It’s used to soothe discomfort in carrying dragons._

“Interesting,” Sherlock steeple his hands together under his chin, “Go on.” At the look thrown at him by John, he added, “Please.”

John hummed; a low deep sound. _Earth dragons are usually difficult to find though, they tend to live deep in the forest, near lakes where the presence of water will cloak their scent. If you want to meet one, you must have something it wants, and then it finds you, eh, that’s what I gathered from the other dragons who has dealings with earth dragons before._

“Hmm, how did you get to meet one then?”

_By luck. I saved one of its young hatchlings from falling to its death while it tumbled out of the nest._

“How heroic of you.”

John narrowed his eyes at the detective sitting in his black armchair; the man didn’t look at the least impressed.  _Sounds like you’re insulting me._

“Is that so? Anyway, carry on. Tell me about draconic habits.”

_Git_. John said, shaking his head fondly.  _We don’t really have habits. Well, for me. I’ve been away and on the constant move so I haven’t been able to indulge. Typical ones are hoarding, building a comfortable nest. Do expect me to slip up within the next few weeks._

Sherlock hummed in affirmation, “Children?”

_Hatchlings. We breed slowly, but we do so in batches. A batch could have a dozen hatchlings, but most hatchlings don’t survive past five full moons, either too weak to survive, or killed off by other dragons. But a dragon is very protective of their brood, the latter only happens rarely._

“Do you've your own hatchlings?”

John rolled his eyes at the question.  _Inappropriate to ask a dragon such a question, but, seeing you did me a favor today, I shall return it. No, I do not._

“Then when do you leave nest?”

John sniffed, and unfurled his wings a little to get comfortable then folded them again. _We get chased off after our hide hardens, with claws and horns, we could survive. But typically after leaving nest, we would still seek out our nest mates, siblings, and such._

“Did you?”

_Seek out my nest mates? Nah, the nest I was in was small, many hatchlings died. And my sister flew off when she could, didn’t look back; I lingered in the forest for a while and then I flew where the wind would take me._

“Found yourself in London then?”

_Quite. Went to war. Got shot, transported back here. Didn’t think I’d wake up in a cage though._ John opened his mouth and conjured a small ball of flame into the fireplace, rekindling the cinders stacked inside. The small flame grew, and a fire crackled steadily within. He huddled closer to the flame and sighed.

Sherlock observed the move of self-comforting John displayed, and made a note in his mind palace in the reserved room about fire dragons, “Hmm. Tell more about your kind. Do you have an authority?”

John turned his gaze towards Sherlock. _None that I know of, as far as I know, we're our own dragon; we look up to older dragons for wisdom and advice. But there is neither king nor queen._

“Do you have fears?”

_Another question you shouldn’t have asked. But that isn’t going to stop you from asking right?_

Sherlock shook his head, “Data, data, data. I need data. I’d rather offend one dragon than the whole species, make a sacrifice won’t you?”

John snorted. _Yeah, Fine. Well we fear not being able to fly. That bit is obvious. And losing our abilities, losing control, losing a hatchling, losing our hoard, things we consider our own._

“Hmm, fair enough,” Sherlock eyed John’s scarred wing then continued, “What do you mean by abilities? Varies I suppose.”

_Well of course. I breathe fire. So I’m not afraid of fire nor heat, rather I thrive in it. But that doesn’t mean I fear the cold. Well, not that much, not until it affects my core body temperature._

“Explain.”

_You understand you’re asking me to give you information that could be used to hurt me._

“Of course I do. As your current handler, I need to know, so I can plan ways round it to prevent that.”

_I’m a dragon. I’ve survived till now alone. I'll fight tooth and claw to protect myself. There's no need for your protection._

“No need to be snappy. The work I do is dangerous; I don't doubt your abilities, John. I consider myself as a scientist and I’d like to have all the facts at my disposal. The information could save lives in my work as a Consulting Detective. Do you see the importance now?”

_If you put it so eloquently like that, I'd have no choice but to explain it all to you, but you already knew that don’t you?_

Sherlock grinned.

_You’re insufferable._  John flop his tail over Sherlock’s shoe clad feet.  _A dragon has its own core body temperature. An ice dragon would have sub-zero temperatures. And a fire dragon like me maintains a high temperature so as to be able to expel flames. As our core is our life, going over the maximum allowance would be deadly. In human terms it is equivalent to hypothermia or heat stroke, whichever is applicable._

“If that happens?”

_You mean as a rescue?_ John started then jerked to attention at the sound of a car engine turning off right outside 221B. He rose to his feet. _Sherlock, someone is approaching._

“Hmm?” Sherlock craned his neck backwards to look out the window, “Oh.”

The door downstairs flung open and footsteps ascended up, and a grey haired man swept into the living room of 221B. John unfurled his wings in a sign of aggression, pervading the entire sitting room with leathery golden, curving subtly round their chairs; he bared his sharp teeth in warning, a growl rumbling deep within his stomach, eyes fixed upon the just arrived man with distrust.

The same man he saw this morning.

“ _WHAT THE FUCK!?_ ” The man yelled, stumbling a few steps back, “Sherlock! It’s a _dragon!_ ”

“Astounding observational skills, Lestrade,” Sherlock said, rising to his feet and buttoning his suit jacket; stepping out of the shield of golden wings, “What’s new about this one?”

Seeing Sherlock react this calmly, John folded his wings and settled back down before the fireplace after deeming the man a no threat to either of them. But he kept an eye on the man just in case.

 “So, it’s _yours?_ I swear, I’ve seen it before…”

“Lestrade. _Case._ ”

“Wait. It’s the dragon at the market! You bought it?! _I KNEW YOU WERE IN THE SHOP!_ ” Lestrade howled, almost flailing his arms around.

“You want to talk about the dragon? Fine. This is John.” Sherlock gestured to the horse sized dragon curled up before the fireplace, “John, this is Lestrade, Detective Inspector from Scotland Yard. Now can we _move_ on?”

John gave a nod in greeting, and Lestrade gave one back in return.

“Yeah, hello,” Lestrade said, then slipped back into business once his curiosity has been addressed, “You know they never leave notes? This one did.”

“Where?”

“Brixton, Lauriston Gardens.”

“Who’s on forensics?”

“Anderson.”

“Anderson won’t work with me.”

“Well, he won’t be your assistant.”

“I  _need_  an assistant.”

“Will you come?”

“Not in a police car, will be right behind.”

“Thank you.” Lestrade nodded, sparing John a glance then he left.

As the door slammed downstairs, Sherlock twirled around, “Yes! Four serial suicides, and now a note! Oh, it’s _Christmas!_ ”

_So what now?_

“No point sitting at home when there's finally something fun going on!” Sherlock slipped on his coat and was wrapping his blue scarf around his neck when John’s hesitant voice rang through his head.

_Want me to come with you?_

“You’re an army dragon, trained. Any good?” Sherlock slipped on his gloves, and flexed his fingers.

_You have no idea._

“Seen a lot of injuries then. Violent deaths.” Wallet, phone, and keys in pockets. Good.

_Well, of course._

“Bit of trouble too, I bet.” Sherlock smiled, the thrill of the chase starting to race through him.

_Yes. Far too much._

“Want to see some more?”

_Oh god, yes._

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There you have it. John in his golden glory.  
> Let me know what you think of this chapter!
> 
>    
> Next chapter...you already know what will happen, don't you?  
> But, there is something different.  
> Something slightly unexpected.  
> Or at least I hope it is.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the kudos and lovely comments. They make my day so much brighter. You guys are wonderful. ♥
> 
> Also, this will be a short chapter.  
> Just under 2,700 words.  
> I'm disclosing John as slowly as I go, and build up the relationship between Sherlock and Dragon John. 
> 
> As usual. Not beta-ed, not brit-picked.

After much stumbling, and wasted energy, John adjusted his footing as he perched himself on Sherlock’s shoulders, almost falling off when the man exited the cab with a smooth glide.

“If you knew how to _miniaturize_ yourself, you should have done it in the _first place._ ” Sherlock grumbled as he stalked towards the flashing siren lights and police tapes.

John dug his claws into the fabric of Sherlock’s coat and looped his body around the detective’s shoulders, aligning his front claws into the collar of the man’s coat, he snuffed the blue scarf and settled, his tail curving round Sherlock’s throat for balance.

_Sherlock! I said I was sorry! It’s hardly my fault! I'd to trust you to do that! I’m the size of a weasel now! Look! I can curl round your neck! I’m tiny! Tiny! You could've used a frying pan and play whack-a-mole at me!_

Sherlock scoffed, “Don’t be an idiot, John. If I wanted to hurt you, I wouldn’t have bought you!”

_RESCUED!_

Sherlock ignored the hollering in his head and ranted through, “Size isn’t a matter, John, if you truly are a dragon.”

_I am a dragon!_

“There you have it. Problem solved. Yay!” Sherlock said and John whacked him with its tail, “Careful! You could've scratched me with those spikes of yours!”

_I'm a dragon. I’m capable of controlling my strength. This is a perfect opportunity to prove my capabilities._ John said as he flapped his tail against Sherlock’s cheek, the sharp ivory prongs protruding at the scaly end just caressing smooth skin, not scratching; not piercing. _See? Harmless. There's a big difference in attacking to hurt and getting your attention, and this is to prove a point._

“Ughh. Stop. Point made.” Sherlock groaned, wiping a hand across his abused cheek, “You’re dreadful.”

_Pot. Kettle,_ John chirped then rubbed his head against Sherlock’s abused cheek. _Feel better?_

“You idiot.” Sherlock huffed without vitriol as he came to a stop before the police tape where a hostile looking woman stood.

“Hello, Freak.”

Sherlock remained indifferent to the moniker and stood tall with his chin high. But the golden dragon perching on his shoulders thought otherwise. He felt John's hackles rise from the tensing of muscles, and a rumbling sneer sounded beside his ear, rough and harsh with aggression. His heart lightened at the thought of John making a stand for him, he almost smiled when he felt the tail under his chin curl snugly against the skin of his neck in a protective, reassuring gesture.

“Why are- Is that a dragon? Why do _you_ have a dragon?”

_Who she?_ John gave a bristled snarl when the female officer leaned forward to inspect him; he flashed his rows of sharp teeth in warning, a fume of grey smoke escaping through his jaws.

“John, Sergeant Sally Donovan. Old friend.” Sherlock said to John then addressed the female officer before him, “I’m here to see Detective Inspector, Lestrade.”

John leaned forward to sniff indiscreetly at the air, cataloguing the woman’s faint scent overlaid by a strong masculine smell in his mind, and then he withdrew back to the familiar scent of the detective that he has started to establish as safety and home.

“Why?” Sally sniped, her eyes fixed on the medium sized golden dragon wrapped round Sherlock’s shoulders like a second scarf, which is staring intently at her; its eyes narrowed in a semblance of a glare.

“I think he wants me to take a look.” Sherlock replied, and grabbed the police tape; John tensed his muscles for the dip.

“Oh, you know what I think, don’t you?” Sally declared, almost haughtily.

“Always, Sally,” Sherlock said, ducking under the tape, and took a breath through his nose; John realigned himself upon his shoulders, a steady grounding weight, “I even know you didn’t make it home last night.”

“I don’t- Wait. You can’t bring a dragon inside.”

_Sherlock, maybe-_

“No.” Sherlock stride resolutely forward, eyes darting around the place, absorbing clues.

“Freak’s here,” Sally spoke into the walkie talkie; John hissed, feeling weirdly protective for the detective as he thought to himself, if she calls Sherlock that one more time, he will bite her, “Bringing him in.”

As soon as Sally finished speaking, on cue, a man John saw this morning emerged from the building. He gave a soft displeased rumble at the look of obvious dislike on the man's pasty face. 

“Ah, Anderson. Here we're again.” Sherlock cited, looking up and down the blue garbs the other man is wearing.

“It’s a crime scene, I don’t want it contaminated. Are we clear on that?” Anderson stated as he pulled the disposable latex gloves off his hands with a loud snap.

“Quite clear.” Sherlock said, and moved past the man, the swift action unsettled the air around the detective, and the waft of something strong tickled his olfactory senses and John sneezed; a harsh grating sound, a puff of smoke expulsed out of his nostrils.

_Sorry. His deodorant is a little on the heavy side._

Sherlock huffed in agreement. John curled his body tighter around his nape, craning its neck up to press its head against his right cheek, from the corner of his eyes, he saw John's bright eyes were twinkling as a long stream of smoke wafted out of its parted jaws. It smelled like distinctly of home-made pastries and fire. Comfort and danger.

“Wait. Is that-? You can’t bring a dragon into a crime scene. It will wreck it!” Anderson scowled, squinting his eyes at the golden creature wrapped round the lanky detective's shoulders. He met the dragon's blue eyes and furrowed his brows. He's seen this dragon somewhere...

John curled himself tighter around Sherlock’s neck, snuffing at the detective’s blue scarf, “Hm. I’m sure John knows how to conduct himself properly around a crime scene.”

“How would you know that?” Anderson scoffed. Then he remembered the dragon he saw this morning. His eyes widened and he took another look at the golden beast, but then the dragon he saw this morning was so much bigger; prodigious. He was about to sweep it off as another dragon till he saw the corners of the dragon's jaws pull up in a semblance of a smile. All sharp teeth and heated breath. It knew what he was thinking. _Oh god._ A freak with freakish antics, and now, a dragon who can read minds and change sizes. Just another day at Scotland Yard Major Crime Division. _Wonderful._

“The same way I know your wife is away for long.”

 Anderson frowned, “Oh, don’t pretend you worked that out, somebody told you that.”

“No, your deodorant told me that.”

“My deodorant?”

“It’s for men.”

“Well, _of course_ it’s for men! I’m wearing it!”

“So is Sergeant Donovan,” Sherlock sniffed then wrinkled his nose, “I think it just vaporized, may I go in?” Sherlock stated and John chuckled amused; a chittering sound.

“Now look, whatever you’re trying to imply-”

“I’m not implying anything,  I’m sure Sergeant Donovan came round for a nice little chat, and just _happened_ to stay over. And I assume she scrubbed your floors, going by the state of her knees.”

Sherlock smirked and then swept into the building.

* * *

John got to witness Sherlock’s amazingly fast deductions once again while being surrounded with a team of affronted forensic officers, and the dreary feeling of being left behind at the crime scene.

John returned back to 221B; stomping his feet.

_Never, are you to do that again._ John growled as he settled into the armchair opposite of Sherlock. He had to walk all the way back in his miniature form, he could have ascended up to higher grounds like rooftops, and make his way back but he had no confidence his wings could take him if he were to fall. So, he had to walk the streets in his tiny form, unable to risk his normal form without causing panic; a dragon without a custodian. Though he had a collar on, he is deemed a danger to public despite countless wide media coverage that dragons are in fact, friendly.

Friendly when caught in a good mood. Right now, he is seething. And _hungry._

He almost got ran down by a speeding car when he was trying to cross the street, and after that, his tail got stepped on. It took great restrain not to bite the ankle of the person. It didn’t really hurt, but to have someone step on you wasn't a pleasant experience.

“What matters are the results. I found the suitcase with a few simple deductions.” Sherlock said, heaving a pink suitcase onto a chair, he unzipped the case and flung the cover open.

_All very interesting, but that’s not the problem right now_

“Hmm… John, could you-”

_Are you even listening to me?!_

Sherlock looked up at the loudness of the voice in his head, and met John’s blue dragon eyes, which are silted and narrowed at the moment, “You’re angry with me.”

_Is it that obvious?_

“No need for sarcasm, John.”

_I almost got ran down by a speeding car, Sherlock! Just because you ran off to find some bloody stupid suitcase!_

Sherlock smiled at the golden dragon sitting on its rump in a puffy armchair, fuming, it was almost comical, resisting the sudden urge to laugh, he asked, “Would you like a cup of tea?”

_Tea?_ John perked, and then he puffed out a fume of smoke. _You’re going to make me tea?_

“For the sake of my well-being, I can’t have you yelling in my head because you’re angry.” Sherlock stated then stood up; he buttoned his suit jacket and headed to the kitchen. Three and a half minutes later, John sipped at a hot mug of Earl Grey in his chair, the mug placed between his feet as he wrapped his claws around the ceramic.

_Apology accepted. Can’t stay angry, might spoil the flavor of the tea._

“Hm. That would be blasphemous.” Sherlock announced, and John chuckled.

_Go on then, amaze me. The suitcase, did you find anything important?_

“Her phone's missing.”

_So? She could've lost it. Or forgotten it at home._

“No, she has a string of lovers she’s careful about; she wouldn’t leave her phone at home.” Sherlock steeple his hands under his chin, “John, I need you to fetch Mrs. Hudson’s phone for me. Always a chance my number will be recognized, it’s on the website.”

John stared.

“John.”

_You were just saying sorry._

“John.”

_No._

“Fine." Sherlock said and then took a deep breath, " _MRS. HUDSON!!!!_ ” Sherlock yelled and John cringed, his ears ringing.

_OW! God damn it! Sherlock! My ears!_

“I asked you, you refused.”

_Can’t you just go downstairs, in person?_

“There’s no hurry.”

John took a deep breath, and then exhaled, before proceeding to take a gulp of tea.

“She didn’t hear me. Maybe if I shout one more time, she would. _MRS-_ ”

_STOP! I’LL GO! You’ll make me deaf!_ John snapped, shifting the mug to a corner of the chair and leaped off.

He spent three minutes in vain to get Mrs. Hudson attention at the door, and then he gave up and transformed back into his normal form and tapped the door with his feet. Then after some trouble, he initiated the mental link towards their landlady. And then he spent four minutes to reassure the elderly lady that she wasn't going crazy and hearing things; he took thirty seconds to deliver the phone in his mouth to the troublesome man upstairs.

_Here._ John said, opening his jaws to drop the phone into Sherlock’s lap. _If you make me do this one more time, I’ll bite you._

“How did you get Mrs. Hudson to understand you when you can’t speak to her like you do to me?”

_I extended the mental link to include her._

“Oh.”

_Indeed. Now, do whatever you do. I need to find something to eat._

Sherlock hummed as he typed out a message with the borrowed phone:

> _What happened at Lauriston Gardens?_
> 
> _I must have blacked out._
> 
> _22 Northumberland Street._
> 
> _Please come._

When he was done, he waited for a response while watching the golden dragon hulked in the kitchen in its original physique, struggling to open the refrigerator door with its front feet - should he identify them as feet? Or hands? - Sherlock contemplated for a while then resigned calling them as hands. He watched John finally pull the door open and then, after a brief look inside, slammed it shut again, leaning its head against the fridge door; depressed.

_Why?_

“Why what?”

_Why are there eyeballs staring right back at me inside the cold food box? Why?_

Sherlock snorted, “It’s an experiment.”

_The sacred cold box of storing and preserving food is tarnished by all those, eyeballs, and thumbs, and whatever that green thing is. There’s no food. How can there be no food? It’s a cold food box. There should be food inside._

“It’s called a refrigerator, John. And that green thing is in fact jelly.” Sherlock stated, crossing his legs as he watch John open the fridge again, he waited till John reached for the jar of green jelly before continuing, “Before I tried to catalogue how fast does a fungus spore grow in that medium.”

John let out a long, deep groan which sounded sad as he slammed the fridge door shut, the force of it rattling the jars on the shelves.

Then before Sherlock could speak, a shrill tone of an incoming call rang. He didn’t move a muscle.

_Aren’t you gonna pick that up?_ John said, his voice desolated and tired.

“Nope, since it’s the murderer calling.”

_What?!_

Sherlock eyed the screen, “A few hours after his last victim, and now he receives a text that can only be from her. If somebody had just found that phone, they'd ignore a text irregardless of its contents, but the murderer, would panic!” Sherlock flipped the pink case shut as the ringing ceased; he stood and grabbed his coat.

_Have you talked to the police?_ John padded back into the sitting room, and tried to snuff out the fire with his foot, when it didn’t work, he ate the flames; drawing it into his mouth and swallowing it. The cinders in the fireplace gave one last feeble light and then promptly died.

Sherlock catalogued the action into his mind palace for further analysis, “Four people are dead; there isn’t time to talk to the police. Well...”

_Well what?_

“You could stay here, and lounge about. “ Sherlock wrapped his scarf around his neck and turned his coat collar up.

_What? You want me to come with you?_

“I like company when I go out, and I think better when I talk out loud. Mrs. Hudson took my skull.”

John looked at the mantle, and the skull which initially sat there was gone. _So basically, I’m filling in for your skull._

“Relax, you’re doing fine.”

_And?_

“Skull just attracts attention.”

_Can’t say I’m any better at that._

Sherlock grinned, but John made no move to join him, “Problem?”

_My stomach is making its displeasure known to me._

“Not to worry, I've a perfect solution for that. Come on, John. “Sherlock gestured his right shoulder, and immediately John did a flip and turned into a miniature form of himself; using the chair as leverage, he leaped forward and planted himself across the detective’s shoulders.

_Onwards!_ John patted Sherlock’s shoulder with his tail as one would on a horse.

He got ranted at for it, and the detective sulked; insulted all the way down the stairs. But John felt Sherlock relax when he wrapped his body closer to the detective’s nape, curling his tail under Sherlock’s chin and snuffing under the blue scarf; his snout pressing against the detective’s exposed skin. He felt the steady beating of Sherlock’s heart, and the cold air of London as the detective brought them down the street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was that unexpected? John in a tinny tiny form. God damn it. I'll bring him EVERYWHERE. UGHHH. The mental image is killing me.
> 
> Next chapter: Meat.
> 
> Also, as you know I keep irregular updating schedules. I'm just gonna inform you guys that the next chapter will not come so soon. I'm moving house next week. It takes a while to get the wireless internet all set up and paint all the walls. You get the gist...So I'll post when i'm all settled in! :D


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M BACKKKKKK.  
> I've settled into my new house! Yet to paint the walls though (argued over what colors to paint), overall, the house is a Sherlock worthy mess. Organised chaos, I would like to think so. And i'm still going through the arduous process of informing relevant authorities about the change of addresses. There were so many 'Not my division' phrases repeated back to me on so many occasions it's not even funny anymore. 
> 
> But since the wireless network is set up today...
> 
> Here is the next chapter!  
> 4,270+ words! With slight profanity.  
> As usual, not beta-ed. Not brit-picked.

They found themselves in a cozy Italian restaurant down Northumberland Street, seated at the best seats, and were personally served by the owner, Angelo.

Informed by the man himself, Angelo owed Sherlock a huge favor. Being cleared from a triple murder charge and received a lesser prison sentence for housebreaking.

_-“This man got me off a murder charge, but for this man, I’d have gone to prison.” Angelo said jovially. -_

_-“You did go to prison.” Sherlock quipped.-_

_-“I’ll get a candle for the table, it’ll be more romantic.” Angelo suggested.-_

Their meal was completely free. Well, his meal. And John degusted the dish as appreciatively as a dragon could on an all meat meal, courtesy of Angelo.

_-“Dragons eat meat!” Angelo announced and John smiled.-_

_Why don’t you want to eat?_ John asked as he stabbed another cube of cooked beef, once again, the courtesy of Angelo who kindly cut up the meat for him at the back of the restaurant before serving it up; he hummed around the fork as he stuffed the juicy, well marinated meat into his mouth.

“Food slows me down.” Sherlock mumbled his eyes fixed on the street opposite them, occasionally turning his attention to the golden dragon stabbing meat cubes with a fork, “Fine with coffee.”               

_No, it does not, and you can’t just drink fluids! You need food, solids!_

“It is for me.” Sherlock replied, flicking his gaze towards the miniature dragon sitting on the table handling a fork with its claws.

_What?_

“You don’t always get to see a dragon use utensils.” Sherlock took a sip of the coffee he ordered.

_We are not uncivilized creatures!_

“Quite right,” Sherlock said and looked out the window just as a taxi slowed to a stop on the street opposite them, “Look outside, a taxi. Stopped. Nobody getting in, nobody getting out. Why taxi? _Oh, that’s clever. Is it clever? Why is it clever?_ ”

John turned and noted the black London cab idling at the curb.

“Don’t stare.”

_You’re staring._

“We can’t both stare.” Sherlock stood up, grabbed his coat off the back of a chair, and swept out of the door.

* * *

They chased after the cab with the shortest possible route Sherlock planned out.

They went up staircases, down, and up again, over fences, over rooftops, jumped down a low wall, then went down an alleyway, down streets, through an alleyway again and down a street,  where Sherlock threw himself before the cab they were chasing, slamming into the car hood with a bang.

But their efforts were for naught, the passenger in the cab was not the murderer, not a murderer. Just a Californian man on his first trip in London.

Escaping into the night, John followed Sherlock through brightly lit streets, feeling like himself again after so long.

They returned back to 221B, giddy with glee.

 _That was ridiculous. That was the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done._ John said as he slumped back down against the carpet; a bubble of mirth frothing in his chest.

“And you invaded Afghanistan.” Sherlock said as he panted, and they giggled; a cacophony of rumbling laughter.

 _That wasn’t just me._ John chuckled, flapping his wings and folded them comfortably against his back.  _Why aren’t we back at the restaurant?_

“They can keep an eye out; it was a long shot anyway.” Sherlock flicked his hand in dismissal and took deep breaths.

_So what were we doing there?_

“Oh, just passing the time, and proving a point.” Sherlock puffed, his breathing slowly returning to normal.

_What point?_

“You.”

_Me?_

Sherlock smirked, “Look at yourself, what’s missing?”

John did, and found no abnormalities then he looked up at the detective; flummoxed.  _What are you going on about?_

Sherlock sighed, and then pointed to his feet. John examined them and then looked at the detective as a sense of electrifying portent thrummed through his veins.

_What are you trying to say?_

“Your feet, John. They are not dirty.” Sherlock pointed out and then continued with a hint of a smile in his voice, “That says your feet didn’t touch the ground, which means, you flew.”

At Sherlock’s words, he looked at feet and true to his words; they weren’t dirty, not really. He looked up at the detective, stunned, and he smiled; wide eyes and sharp teeth, an airy chuckle rumbling up his throat with a wisp of smoke. Sherlock mirrored his smile in a modest, genuine way that lit up his eyes with a hint of fervour for his art. 

John didn’t get to exclaim how outrageous it is before Mrs. Hudson came out of her flat, teary, “Sherlock, what have you done?”

John was immediately alarmed.

“Mrs. Hudson?” Sherlock queried, all traces of laughter erased. 

“Upstairs.” She said, dabbing her eyes with a hanky.

Sherlock turned and took the stairs, John followed behind in his miniature form, flying up the stairs and into 221B.

“What are you doing?” Sherlock quipped, standing before his armchair.

“Well, I knew you’d find the case, I’m not stupid.” Lestrade said as he sat crossed legged in Sherlock’s chair, an arm thrown over the back, not at all reserved.

“You can’t just break into my flat!”

“You can’t withhold evidence, and I didn’t break into your flat!”

“What do you call this then?” Sherlock gestured to the small army of police officers rummaging through the flat.

Lestrade looked around then grinned, “It’s a drugs bust!”

John made a sharp piercing noise at the absurdity of the statement, and then he flew towards the pepper-grey haired man, plopping right down on the DI's chest; wings flapping and folding behind him.

Lestrade shouted, surprised and shocked when John flew right towards him, he was almost certain the dragon was going to claw at his face, but instead the dragon landed on his chest and craned its neck up.

“W-w- _what?!_ Sherlock! What is- _Hey!_ ” Lestrade exclaimed, hands cupping the air around the miniature fire breathing beast as the golden dragon pressed its head against his forehead, he felt a warm tingling sensation and then the weight on his chest disappeared along with the sound of leathery wings beating.

Sherlock crossed his arms, and watched on, indifferent as John initiated the mental link for conversation towards the Detective Inspector. It didn’t take long, approximately twenty seconds, and John flew off the DI’s lap onto the puffy red chair the dragon staked as its own.

“Sherlock! Why the _hell_ did John do that?” Lestrade asked, touching his forehead and looking at the golden dragon sitting right opposite him; lustrous blue orbs staring right back at him.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and huffed; stoical. John grinned.

_Hello, Lestrade._

Lestrade’s brown eyes widened and he gaped, hands pressed against his temples, “What the actual  _fuck is this sorcery?!_ ” He bellowed and got the attention of all the officers in the flat, he cleared his throat and waved a dismissive hand at them, urging them to continue on with whatever they were doing.

_Calm down. It’s just me, John._

Sherlock scoffed at the wide eyed expression adorning Lestrade’s features, “Now John has extended his courtesy to you. I presume you have to continue explaining why you are here.”

Lestrade blinked, turning his gaze from the dragon to Sherlock, “Like I said, it’s a drugs bust!”

 _Seriously? This guy, a junkie? Have you met him?_ John said, whipping his tail towards the detective.

“John…”

_I’m sure you can search the flat all day and you wouldn’t find anything you could call recreational._

“John, you probably want to shut up now.”

 _Yeah, but come on!_  John said, and then saw the expression on Sherlock’s face. That slightly awkward look painted across the detective’s face and the wavering light in celadon eyes, as if daring him to say anything else.  _No…_

Sherlock furrowed his brows, “What?”

_You?_

“ _Shut up!_ ” Sherlock said, miffed, then whirled around to face the seated man, “I’m not your sniffer dog!”

“No, Anderson is my sniffer dog.” Lestrade answered, amused and entertained, pointing his chin towards the kitchen where the sliding glass partition slid to the side, revealing the man.

“Wel- Anderson, what are you doing here on a drugs bust?!” Sherlock hollered.

“Oh, I volunteered.”

“They all did, but they are not strictly speaking on the drug squad, but they’re very keen.” Lestrade explained, John sighed.

“Are these human eyes?” Sally asked as she lifted an sealable airtight glass jar; sickened.

“Put those back!” Sherlock barked. His mind automatically pulled out a sheet of results he had recorded: How long does it take before human eyeballs will-

“But they were in the microwave!” Sally retorted, utterly revolted.

“It’s an experiment!” Sherlock emphasized and paced up and down the sitting room.

“Keep looking guys,” Lestrade called out, and then turned to Sherlock, “Or you could help us properly and I’ll stand them down.”

_Sherlock…_

“This is childish!” Sherlock bit out as he paced the carpeted floor.

_Eh. You’re not really making it easier._

Sherlock whipped around and snarled, “Whose side are you on, John?!”

_Well, I’m neutral._

“URGH.” Sherlock groaned and continued pacing.

If Lestrade didn’t know better, he would have thought the detective was speaking to himself. Well, it looked like it is to the other officers in the flat, though their hands were moving, their attention is fixed on the racket going on in the sitting room.

_Do you really have drugs lying around? You know I’m capable of picking up scents like those. I’ll know where you hide them. Do you want me to start now? I think I know where you are hid-_

“I am clean!” Sherlock bellowed, cutting off the rest of John’s sentence; pulling at his cuffs.

“Is your flat?” Lestrade queried, standing up, “All of it?”

“I don’t even smoke.” Sherlock said, pulling his sleeve up, revealing a nicotine patch on his arm.

“Neither do I,” Lestrade mimicked the action and displayed his arm, then pulled the sleeve down, “So let’s work together.”

* * *

John stood on the table with a computer whirling away; alone in 221B.

It was like the calm before a storm. His instincts pealed warnings at him; something very bad is going to happen, and it’s going to happen soon.

A perturbed hunch lingered at the back of his mind, nagging, lurking, and he didn’t like that disquietedness. It was like Afghanistan all over again. This time, it was not about him. It’s about Sherlock, the mad infuriating genius, whom is nonchalant about his own well being, and instead of running away from danger, ran towards it; seeking the distraction; the adrenaline.

They were so alike, and that’s what drawn him towards Sherlock in the first place, and the man is currently not by his side, probably off somewhere doing something dangerously crazy and life threatening. His stomach flipped from the anxiety and he resisted the urge to dry heave or destroy something, the thought of that genius being snuffed out like a cig terrifies him.

He was about to set out to search blindly for Sherlock when the computer gave a beep. He took one glance at the screen, the flashing dot marking the pink phone’s location: Roland-Kerr Further Education College. He flew down the stairs as he plotted out the directions to head to.

The heavy door of 221B slammed shut behind him, and the cool air of the night embraced him.

Taking a look down the quiet street, John let his magic unfold and revert back into his true self, unfurling his broad wings with whish of air, he perfunctory flapped a few times, the extensive leathery appendages stroked the air and raised him off the ground.

Innately he flapped and hovered, keeping himself levitated, and with one powerful beat of his wings, he propelled himself off the ground, launching up into the night sky in a blur of golden.

Spreading his wings open in the cool air in mid flight, John took a deep breath as he suspended over the bustling city for a millisecond, and then went free-fall, speeding down towards the ground. He twisted his body round, whirling around in a maelstrom of wings and claws, his spiked tail whipping behind him as the fire in his belly swelled from the air.

With one energized beat of his wings, he thrust himself back up into the air, soaring through the night sky with the twinkling lights of London stretched out beneath him.

And flew. 

* * *

John ululate a sonorant cry as he landed on the steeped roof of the college the online phone tracking service stated. He hoped he was not too late, not too late to save his human.

Spontaneously, he cast his senses out, straining to hear that unique deep baritone that will lead him to the detective, but all he could hear was the noise of the bustling city that never sleeps. The blaring horns, the chatter, it has drowned out the voice he wanted to hear.

He inhaled a deep breath and all he could identify was the almost imperceptible musky premonition of rain, and the strong assaulting odor of the city, not the distinctive crisp scent of the detective.

With a beat of his wings, he took flight. 

* * *

“Just before you go, did you figure it out? Which one’s the good bottle?”

“Of course. Child’s play.”

“Well, which one then? Just so I know whether I could have beaten you. Come on, _play the game._ ”

Sherlock strolled back and snatched a bottle off the desk, the pill clicked against the plastic bottle.

“Oh, interesting. Really, what do you think? Can you beat me? Are you clever enough to bet your life?”

He was examining the pill when he piqued at the sound of a dissonant cry that sounded absolutely draconic. He smiled as he saw the expression of apprehension filter across the cabbie’s face before it flickered away.

* * *

John abseiled down from the roof, spreading his wings to slow his fall as he swerved to the left and with a powered flap of his huge wings, he changed the course of his flight and thrust himself back up into the air; he scanned through the windows, and ignored the darken rooms, heading straight for the ones with the lights on.

Almost frantically, he searched, but there were none with the detective inside.

John was starting to feel the trepidation creeping in and that nagging hunch at the back of his mind leeching into a frightening thought. Shaking his head, he leaned forward and spurred himself on faster, swooping up and round the corner of the college to the next block where the lights were on.

Then before he saw, he caught a sharp scent in the wind, a fresh trail that denoted the detective is safe.

Instantly, his eyes flitted towards the light as he flew down the length of the college block; the scent intensifying.

There on the second floor, the third room, he spotted the familiar back of the detective.

John lingered outside, his wings making no sound, except for the steady sibilant swishing of air as he kept himself airborne in the shadows. He watch the detective inch the pill nearer to his lips, the man standing in front of Sherlock, John recognized him as the cabbie from the cab they chased, mimicking the action, the man clearly urging Sherlock to swallow the pill.

The poison pill the four victims swallowed and then died from.

His mind reeled and his control wavered; it is now, or never.

The fire in the pit of his belly turned, tumbling, stirring, rousing. John opened his jaws and sucked in a deep breath into his expanded lungs, mixing the air with heated gas fumes housed within him. Like a mercurial charge being generated, he conjured a barrel of combusted incandescent blue flame at the back of his throat; regulating it into a whirling sphere, forcing it into a compact form of pure near invisible heat.

Sweeping his wings open to account for the rebound force, the rest that happened were purely draconic instincts.

* * *

“You’re not bored now, are you? Isn’t it good- _Oh God-_ ”

* * *

Blood gurgling from his bloodied lips, the cabbie’s wide open eyes shone with a dying light of paralyzed fear, the man took a shuddering wheezing breath, jerked once, twice, and then stilled. The body didn’t move again as its life force pooled onto the tiles, inching outwards in inky dark rivulets.

Sherlock launched into action and whirled around, peeking through the wide gaping hole in the glass window, the long plane of glass that should have cracked upon impact remained pristine, not even a hairline scratch. The floor around the window plane was littered with uneven shards of fine glass; vitreous glitter.

The window on the opposite block was closed, and the lights were off, there was no one there. It was dark outside, but through the hole in the window blew a weak warm breeze, and in the air lingered a scent of burnt matchsticks. 

Heart thudding heavily in his ribcage, and with his ears still ringing, Sherlock stood in the middle of the wreckage, silent.

Just awhile ago the cabbie was still alive, coaxing him to take his ‘medicine’ and then there was a loud breakneck ascending frequency of resonance that sounded like a electrical charge being powered. The vibrating pitch rattled the windows, and before he could turn around, a ear splitting screech pierced his eardrums in ringing assault, reflexes forcing him to double over to cover his ears as a beam of blinding white light shot right past him, its heat startling him with its intensity, and the cabbie before him fell with a fatal wound to his chest.

The undisguised fear in the cabbie’s eyes before he fell...

Sherlock slipped his hand into his coat pocket and palmed his slim mobile.

* * *

Sirens whooped, and police lights flashed, illuminating the place with beams of blue and red.

“Why have I got this blanket?” Sherlock said, annoyed as Lestrade approached the back of the ambulance he is currently sitting in, "They keep putting this blanket on me."

“Yeah, it’s for shock.” Lestrade answered, finally feeling relieved seeing the detective was well enough to complain. He almost got a heart attack when he received a text from the man saying he is standing in the middle of a crime scene, and the apparent serial killer of the serial killings was shot dead before him. He almost phoned the elder Holmes.  _Almost._

“I’m not in shock.”

“Yeah, but some of the guys want to take photographs.” Lestrade smiled, one of the ongoing office activities that he actually likes and participates. The officer who could get unique photographs, or evidence of their consultant will win the huge jackpot of cumulated bets. He is currently on his third consecutive win, and he is set on obtaining his fourth win. He knew Sherlock knew what was going on, but didn't spoil the fun for all of them, that’s probably why some of his people didn’t mind the detective that much. Every occasion with the detective, is a possible occasion to earn extra money.

“So, the shooter. No sign?” Sherlock asked before his mind caught on that it was a probably a bad idea.

“Cleared off before we got here, but a guy like that would have enemies, I suppose. One of them could have been following him, but…we got nothing to go on. There’s no bullet. Just an evidence bag of glass shards. The onsite M.E said the victim died from a fatal wound to his chest, the weapon pierced his lungs; blood loss, died pretty quick. The entry wound was quite big, there’s no weapon found, but I have men out looking. I suppose you could shed some light on this, seeing you are there when he was killed. So any insights?”

Sherlock’s gaze drifted to the sidelines as Lestrade spoke right beside him.

He saw John, large and hulking, resting on fours beside a police car, the flickering police lights glinting off its golden hide in colours of muted red and blue.

He  _should have_  known.

The screeches reverberation that were utterly unearthly.

The hole in the glass window, the point of entry was smooth, not jagged, which meant the object that was shot through was fast, and high in temperature, hot enough to pierce glass and not shatter it.

The wall that took the blunt hit of the shot, he examined it after he texted Lestrade, there was no embedded bullet, yet there was an indentation in the brick.

The scent of smoke.

The dissonant cry he heard.

He should have knownJohn was going to follow him, and the depth of loyalty John held for him; the means to keep him alive.

“Forget what I said. You’re quite right.” Sherlock said, stepping down from the ambulance.

“Huh? What? Sherlock, where are you going? Aren’t you going to help us?”

“I have to…talk about the…rent.”

“Sherlock!” Lestrade exclaimed as he crossed his arms, “I’m asking you to help us catch this guy.”

“What now? I’m in shock! _Look,_ I’ve got a blanket!” Sherlock waved a edge of the orange blanket at Lestrade, “and I’ve just caught you a serial killer!” Sherlock pursed his lips, “More or less.”

Lestrade frowned, not quite believing, but then he nodded, “Okay…I’ll pull you in tomorrow. Off you go.”

Sherlock hesitated, and then scrolled off. He ducked under the tape and threw the orange shock blanket into an opened police car window.

“Talk somewhere else.” Sherlock whispered and stalked off; John flew after him.

_You do know Lestrade can’t hear us at that distance right? The mental link only stretches to a maximum of twenty feet._

Sherlock stopped in the middle of the side walk as John landed on the cobbled pavement; police officers milled about around them.

“Hm. Nice shot.”

 _Yes. Must have been. Outside the window._ John said, looking around.

“How did you know? I don’t suppose anything would happen to you.”

John rearranged his wings and puffed out a fume of smoke.

“You alright?”

John nodded his head. _Yes, of course, I’m alright._

“You’ve just killed a man.”

John tilted his head to the side and blinked, opaque nictitating membrane drawing over, moistening his eyes against the cold air. _Well. It’s true, isn’t it? But he wasn’t a very nice man._

Sherlock shrugged, “No, he wasn’t, really was he?”

_Frankly, a bloody awful cabbie._

Sherlock chuckled, “That’s true. He really  _was_  a bad cabbie. You should have seen the route he took to get us here.”

John giggled, and Sherlock followed suit.  _Stop it! We can’t giggle. It’s a crime scene. Stop it._

“You were the one who shot him.” Sherlock said as he started down the street, John flapped his wings and hovered right behind him; a large golden mass of wings and heat.

_Hey! Keep your voice down!_

Sherlock smirked.

_You were going to take that damned pill, weren’t you?_

“Of course not, biding my time,” Sherlock stopped and turned to the dragon, “Knew you'd turn up. I heard you, and I’m surprised you didn’t wake half of London.”

 _No, you didn’t. That’s how you get your kicks isn’t it? Risking your life to prove you’re clever._ John flapped his wings and fluttered to a stop. _And of course you heard me, if you didn’t; you better schedule an appointment with an otolaryngologist._

Sherlock scoffed, stuffing his hands into his coat pockets, “Why would I do that? And my hearing is superb, if you hadn’t already damaged it with your screeches.”

_Heh. Cause’ you’re an idiot. And you deserved that much, pulling such a stunt and running off like that._

Sherlock smiled, “Dinner?”

 _Oh, yes. I’m starving._ John grumbled then swiftly transformed into a smaller version of himself, and then with a beat of wings, he draped himself over Sherlock’s shoulders.

“End of Baker Street, there’s a good Chinese that stays open till two. You can always tell a good Chinese by the bottom third of the door handle.” Sherlock pointed out, and shrugged his shoulders to get John to rearrange himself properly.

 _Only you would examine door handles to gauge the quality of food. I could come to a conclusion by consuming the food._ John said, orientating his front feet and shuffling his hind feet to a comfortable grip on Sherlock’s coat, tail curling under the detective’s chin; the blunt underside tip of his spiked tail pressing against Sherlock’s pulse point. If Sherlock noticed, he didn’t comment.  _Isn’t it simpler?_

“Hm. Perfectly sound analysis, but I was hoping you’d go deeper.” Sherlock nodded, smiling when John huffed a waft of warm breath against his neck; gunpowder, the faint scent of Earl Grey, and the distinct scent of burnt matchsticks.

_Hmn. The case is closed so you’re going to be eating loads tonight. Oh, and we need to go shopping. The cold food box needs to be filled up._

“I only need to be full, John. Too much food causes indigestion.” Sherlock said, rolling his eyes at the term John adamantly uses to describe the refrigerator, “It’s a refrigerator, John. Say it with me,  _refrigerator_.”

_Nope. I refuse. It’s a cold food box; therefore, I’m calling it as such. And I’ll be watching you. My eyes are on you, you are going to eat so much._

“Hn. You can’t make me.”

_Yes, I can. I’m a dragon. Chinese loves dragons. You’d be amazed by what I can do._

“Oohhh, amaze me.” Sherlock drawled.

 John huffed in challenge, curling his tail snugly against the skin of Sherlock’s neck.  _The game is on._

Sherlock smirked, amused, “Oh yes, it is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A case closed! Next chapter, something. Something.
> 
> P.S: So far, what do you think of the current progress of the story?  
> Let me know in the comments!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, not beta-ed. Not brit-picked.

Sherlock roused slowly to consciousness in his warm cocoon. 

A brief peek at the clock on his bedside table told him it’s currently 8:10 AM. What day is it, he wasn’t sure. But at the moment, Sherlock couldn’t be bothered to find out, even though his phone is right there on the bedside table, power cable plugged in; the touch screen lighting up in reminder of unread texts.

Sherlock buried himself under the covers, his mind palace slowly flickered back online, dormant gears whirling into activation.

Through his parted bedroom door, he heard the sounds of pans clanking and utensils clinking against ceramic, followed by the sound of the tap running.

_Mrs. Hudson._

Then he remembered about John, his golden dragon who killed a man to save him.

He kicked the covers off, inching up onto his elbows and looked around the room, almost expecting to find the great beast curled up somewhere in his room, but his room is immaculate. Everything is in order; untouched.

John must have stayed out of his room then.

Seeing the dragon has not invaded his room, Mrs. Hudson must have kept him full and occupied.

Sherlock slumped back down onto the pillows and he was about to laze around in bed until he smelled the scent of scrambled eggs and bacon wafting through the parted door. His stomach gave a traitorous rumble and he managed to push thoughts of food away till he heard the sound of toast popping up from the toaster, and the crisp scent of freshly brewed tea.

Sherlock huffed and clambered out of bed and into the adjoining bathroom.

After ten minutes of washing up, Sherlock emerged from the bathroom in his dressing gown and stalked into the kitchen, he reckoned to find the elderly lady puttering about in his kitchen, rearranging his beakers and tidying the area, all the while muttering about him making such a mess. His lips has already parted to form the start of a concise retort when he came to a halt under the arch of the doorway to the kitchen; words dying at his lips.

There was no Mrs. Hudson in sight.

Instead of the elderly lady, it was a man, moving around in his kitchen with ease.

The dining table was cleared of its mess, the beakers were set aside, in place were two empty plates and mugs, and half a plastic container of milk.

The man knew where the uncontaminated salt and pepper shakers are kept, the loose _TWG_  tea leaves that were in an unspecified tin, hidden in a cabinet away from its fellow tea and coffee counterparts; knew where the things he didn’t tell anyone were kept. 

_One of Mycroft’s agents?_

“Who are you?” Sherlock took a subtle step back when the unidentified male turned around, he didn’t recognize the man from the personnel files he perused on the agents assigned to tail him; he'd recognize them on sight. This man could be a new agent employed to keep an eye on him, and is in the process of making breakfast, holding onto a spatula in his left, his other hand wrapped around the handle of a fry pan.

Then again, Mycroft's agents don't make breakfast, certainly not in his flat. They knew better than to touch his things, not after the incident of an unfortunate agent who touched and overturned a innocuous looking flask filled with sulphuric acid and burnt his hand. 

_Unlikely to be Mycroft's agent. Not an assassin, seeing he is not dead, and they certainly don't make breakfast in their target's flat._

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and eyed the male up and down, his mind churning out data as soon as his eyes scanned the stationary figure. 

Small, compact figure; muscled, strong. Posture says trained for combat, highly likely to be familiar with all sorts of weapons, conventional or not. _Soldier, discharged?  Special operations?_

Tanned skin; almost golden in the light of the morning sun, not those expensive sun beds kind of tan, but one earned under the sun. _Active._

Short sandy blond hair. _Natural hair color. Military style hair cut._

Bright blue eyes. _Well rested. At ease._

Wide smile. _Friendly; open._

Dressed in an oatmeal colored jumper over a blue shirt, complete with comfortable looking red tartan checkered pants, currently barefooted. _Relaxed. Familiar with place. Mrs. Hudson’s acquaintance? Unlikely._

_Clothes laundered. Clean. No traces of stains. New; well to do._

_No traces of a ring. Not married. No children. No pets._

_?????_

_?????`_

Sherlock shifted subtly to a defensive stance, eyes narrowed as he plotted several moves to disable the man of the fry pan. His right hand slipped stealthily behind him to the wooden beam of the archway, wrapping his fingers around the handle of a knife hidden in a small niche he made, Sherlock tensed his muscles and prepared himself to lunge forward.

“Good morning,” The blond man said smiling, blue eyes following the action of his right hand, and Sherlock’s eyes widened slightly at the voice, “You slept like the dead. I made a lot of noise, even Mrs. Hudson came up to check, but you remained unconscious.”

His hand stilled. Or rather, his whole body went rigid, his right hand still clasping the knife handle.

_He knew that voice._

“I’m sure you slept well?”

_He heard it before._

“Sherlock? Hey. Are you listening to me?”

_In his head._

_In his head._

_In his head._

_In his head._

“Okay. That’s a little scary now.”

_In his head._

_**In his head…** _

OH.

“ _John?_ ”

The man beamed and nodded, a sunny smile breaking out across his face, “What do you think?”

Sherlock scanned John as he let the knife handle go, he pinched his lips together, “Disguise is always a self portrait. How true of you.”

John tilted his head to the side, "You're saying I'm-"

"A man who wants to fit in, but seeks adventure. You exhibit military bearings yet you dress yourself in that jumper, wanting to give a normal impression. It's working by the way, that jumper, ugly as it is."

John laughed, a steady rumble without the draconic note, "Thanks, and my jumper looks just fine."

“How did you gain this…form…body?” Sherlock said as he stalked forward and circled the blond man, “What did you do? This is quite real.”

“I'm _not_ _quite_ real. I _am_ _real_. This is a glamour I’ve come up with,” John answered and then gestured to the kitchen table, side stepping Sherlock’s prying hands, “Sit down and eat something, I'll explain.”

Sherlock sat and John filled the empty plate set before him with scrambled eggs then turned away from the table to retrieve the toast, bacon, and the teapot.

When he is halfway through his breakfast, John had already finished his, hands wrapped around a white ceramic mug, sipping at the hot tea, unblinking blue eyes staring straight at him.

He narrowed his eyes and lifted his chin in question.

“Nothing,” John replied, blinking, then he gestured to himself, “Just trying to get used to this.”

“You have yet to explain to me how you did this.” Sherlock said as he took a bite of toast, eyes roaming over John’s physique. Calloused hands, small but firm looking, nails trimmed short. An average yet comely appearance. Smile lines around eyes and mouth. Blue eyes, round pupils, and thin lips. Clean shaven. Tanned skin. A pure voice and a confident demeanor. The bearings of a typical Englishman, discreet and polite. 

“After you went to bed, I-” John said, and then he furrowed his brows at the fleeting expression of mild puzzlement crossing Sherlock's face, “Sherlock, what’s wrong?”

“What day is it?” Sherlock asked, his hand holding onto a slice of toast pausing at his lips.

“Tuesday,” John answered, and when Sherlock didn’t continue eating, he added, “You slept two days straight.”

“Oh.” Sherlock nodded as he bit into the toast.

John shook his head fondly, “As I was saying, I built, well not literally _built_ , but you get the point, this form with a kind of magic called glamour. Not many dragons trouble themselves to cast this type of magic. It requires a great deal of concentration and persistence, quite like instinct, not a skill that could be learned, it takes a little time getting used to. I spent the whole of yesterday trying to incorporate my dragon form, failed numerous times, couldn’t hold the glamour, made quite a lot of noise, and Mrs. Hudson came up to check, assumed we were fighting.”

He snickered at the memory of their landlady staring at him at the door while he tumbled onto the floor in a flailing mess of wings and claws, yelping inelegantly, "I got accustomed to it after a while, and with a little bit of practice, it’s not a problem to change forms in moments. With this, it's easier to visit crime scenes and interact without the need for mental connection. Plus point, I'm quite handy with weapons, it's easier to manipulate and control. Gun to one's head, knife to one's throat can be a powerful stimulus.”

Sherlock hummed, "I'd like to think dragon fire has a better impetus."

"Well, yes. A dragon spitting fire at you is a blazing sign of hostility and impending death, plus fire's cleaner, but where's the fun in that?" 

Sherlock smirked and then perked, “You've done this before.”

"Eh, I shouldn’t be surprised your mind is this quick at this hour of day." John smiled while he poured Sherlock another cup of tea, “Yes, I'd used this form quite a few times while I was on tour to infiltrate camps, and to stitch my comrades up. Human hands are considerably better at handling surgical tools and weapons than claws. I'm comfortable in this form’s appearance, thought I’ll just go with this. Is there a problem?”

Sherlock stared at John as if the dragon had just asked something utterly banal and not worth answering. Plopping two sugar cubes into his filled cup, he stirred his tea with a spoon, “Do you have a gun on hand?"

“I currently don’t. Do you?” John asked and watch a grin curl at Sherlock's lips, “You do, don’t you?”

“Several, I’ll let you take a look at them after breakfast.” Sherlock took a sip of tea, and then he saw the concern on John’s face, “Don’t fret. I've unregistered ones among them. Can’t be tracked back to me, in other words, you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

John smiled, “I wasn’t worried about that. I’m more concerned about you having guns and unregistered arms.”

Sherlock grinned, adding a splash of milk into his cup just as he remembered the black collar. His mind instantly reminded him to procure a nicer looking collar for the dragon, “John, the collar?”

John blinked, “Oh, oh, that, I kept it in the room upstairs, you don’t mind do you?”

“Course’ not, that room is now yours. I've to call the British government.” Sherlock said then promptly got up from his seat and padded to his room. 

* * *

John was lounging in the sitting room with a book when Sherlock stomped out of his bedroom dressed in one of his impeccable suits, with a frown plastered on.

“What’s wrong?” John asked as the detective threw himself into his leather chair.

“Mycroft.” Sherlock said, his voice dripping with disdain.

John sighed, lowering his book to his lap, “What about him?”

“He refused to hand over your paperwork.”

“Mm hmm.”

“And create an identity for you.”

“Hmm…What?”

“You can’t walk around London in this form without an identity,” Sherlock said, drumming his fingers against the arm of his chair, seemingly all strung up, “Those skeptical officers at the Yard have no qualms with doing a background check on you if need be. Not that I particularly care about what they think, Lestrade could look past that...Maybe we can come to a compromise if you would.”

“I’m pleased you are thinking ahead for me, but I don’t need an identity. I've already made arrangements.”

“What?”

John smiled amiably, “I spoke to the Queen last night.”

“Sorry, what? _Who? Why?_ ”

John grinned at the disconcerted expression on Sherlock’s face, “I phoned the Queen last night, well, not directly, but through appropriate channels, and indirectly informed her that I would like to activate my other status, and roam the streets in human form, so I’ve got all the documents I need,” John said leaning over the side of his armchair to grab a cream legal envelope off a stack of books, “Arrived at dawn on the doorstep, the passport, identity card and other stuffs, I've kept them upstairs.”

Sherlock pulled the papers out, and glanced at the cover page, "Why  _didn't_  you tell me in the  _first place?"_  

"Wow, I must be some kind of magical thing to be able to hide things from you." John shrugged, then he smiled, "No wait. _I am_ a magical thing. Oh, I'm _good_."

"John!"

"I _would_ if I knew you were going approach your brother about me," John said, and then pursed his lips, "Who'd have thought he's the British government. I thought he was some kind of...criminal mastermind. Guns and all."

Sherlock suppressed an amused smirk, " _Close_ enough. Though he really _is_ the British government, when he's not too busy being the British Secret Service or the CIA on a freelance basis. But that doesn't really explain why."

"Well, I kept quiet because partially, it's payback for describing my jumper as ugly."

"I didn't take you as a person to hold grudges."

"I do try to forgive. But I can never forget."

"How much revenge are you going to need?" Sherlock squinted at the dragon sitting opposite him.

John shrugged his shoulders, "Hmm...just the occasional touch-up." 

"Idiot." Sherlock commented with a slight smile.

"Git." John replied, his lips twitching as he resisted the urge to smile, "Go ahead and read."

Sherlock examined the broken red wax seal then thumbed through the papers, scanning through the pages with increasing wonder. The information, the fine print, John's military records, and discharge papers, stamped across in bold red letters were the words ' **AUTHORIZED** ', further cemented with a signature by the highest authority in the land.

John is a dragon in human form, free to switch between forms at his own discretion. His true identity undisclosed to public records, for all they would know, John is a citizen, a man who was honorably discharged from the army; Captain John H. Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, three years in Afghanistan, a veteran of Kandahar, Helmand, and Bart’s Hospital. 

John could get a job, and live his life like an ordinary person. But to the handful of people who knew John from his affiliation with Sherlock, he's a dragon in human form, hiding in plain sight. 

“This changes things.” Sherlock said as he slipped the papers back into the envelope, and twirled a long ball chain with two stainless steel identity disks. John’s initials and last name were engraved across the flat surface, along with his service number, and gender. John’s blood group wasn't stated. Sherlock hummed and flicked his gaze to John sitting opposite of him, and then made a mental note to draw some blood from John for testing. Turning the tags over in his hand, he ran a thumb across the back of a microchip, most probably containing files on John's true identity.

“Yup,” John grinned, “Your brother can’t muck around with me any more, not with the Queen’s signature.”

Sherlock laughed then shook his head, “John, what did you say so convincingly that you'd get this?”

John hummed, “The god honest truth.”

“Which is?” Sherlock leaned forward in his seat, and John grinned.

“That Sherlock Holmes, the only consulting detective in the world, who's England's only last hope in keeping the streets free of intelligent maniacal criminals, whom also, apparently needs someone by his side to prevent him from getting killed.”

Sherlock blinked then smirked, an airy laughter escaping him, “Quite right, now let me show you my armory.”

* * *

In the late evening while they were having takeaway, with the telly on as background noise, the door slammed open downstairs and footsteps ascended up the stairs.

John sniffed the air and Sherlock looked up from his plate of fried rice, “Mycroft.”

“Sherlock,” The government official said in greeting, hooking the handle of his umbrella at the crook of his elbow, “John.”

John gave a mild smile from his seat on the long sofa, lowering his plate as the man stood in the threshold of 221B; a frisson of alarm tingled up his spine and he sighed softly, fingers curling tighter around the silverware in his hand.

“You’re here because you'd received documentations and report on John’s new arrangements.” Sherlock said with a mild simper, “It’s quite a story, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” Mycroft answered and remained silent.

John raised a brow in question, “You want to know how I managed that. Do you not have clearance?”

Mycroft pursed his lips, but still managed to look dignified doing so, “I want to hear it in person.”

John huffed, “Sherlock needed someone by his side to carry a gun, I've noticed the agents you have trailing after him aren't armed.”

Mycroft frowned at John's words but otherwise remained silent.

“Anything else?” John asked, as he stabbed a piece of chicken meat forcefully, his fork scraping the porcelain plate with a harsh screech, “If not, you can tell your snipers to remove themselves from the building opposite. I _do not_ react well to having rifle guns pointed at me _nor_ do I like being threatened by the same person _twice_. But since you’re Sherlock’s brother, I’ll let this slide this _once_. If I wanted to harm any of you, I would've done it, your snipers will be too slow to impede my actions.”

“How would you know?” Mycroft proclaimed, eyes roaming over John’s form, he caught the shimmer of golden scales rippling under the sleeves of John’s oatmeal jumper, “The ammunitions loaded are armor piercing rounds.”

John’s lips twitched into an insidious smile, “All the more I dislike having guns with that kind of rounds targeted at me.”

Sherlock looked at John’s left shoulder and then he met John’s gaze, he saw the flicker of emotions in those blue orbs and instantly understood.

Sherlock stared at Mycroft judgingly, and the older Holmes narrowed his eyes at the gaze.

Mycroft flicked his attention at John, and whatever he saw made him take a step to the side and nod his head in the direction of the windows. John didn't have to turn to be aware of the assault team opposite pulling away from the edge of the rooftops, dismantling their weapons, and dispersing. He sighed.

“Do you have the thing?” Sherlock asked, Mycroft turned, and a well dressed woman appeared at the arch of the doorway and handed him a substantial sized box, “Excellent.”

“What thing?” John asked as Sherlock obtained the box, and handed it off to him.

"Open it." Sherlock said.

John turned the lock and flipped the lid open.

Inside on black velvet, lay a golden collar. He picked it up and held it in his hands, smoothing a thumb over the twirling patterns of ivy etched across the thick band; Titanium gold. Evidently made-to-order. Firmly embedded in the middle is a large attention grabbing purple gem, around the back of the collar near the latch that clicks together, in striking sterling silver, inscribed in a flowing cursive script were Sherlock’s name and contact details.

It's certainly much better than the black leather collar. 

“A titanium gold collar.”

“With a amethyst gem. You can dispose of that ghastly thing you currently have." Sherlock wrinkled his nose at the image of the black collar, "If I’m to be seen wandering around London with a dragon, he has to look nice, that is if you are in dragon form. Dragons covet anything that is gold, don’t they?”

John snorted at Sherlock’s answer, if he didn’t know better he would have thought the detective was insulting him, “Yes, thank you for the gift.”

Sherlock grunted in response, flicking his hand in a dismissing gesture as if the thing he gave John was just a small trinket and then turned his attention to the other Holmes in the room, “Thank you for bringing it to me. You may leave now.”

“Sherlock, I need to have a conversation with John.”

The 'in private' was strongly hinted but Sherlock gestured to John in a ‘go ahead’ wave, Mycroft cast Sherlock a bland look, and the detective raised his eyebrows, “I’m not going to move.”

“Suit yourself.” Mycroft said after a short staring match, he turned his gaze to John, “You have killed a man.”

"I went to war, of course I've killed."

"I'm not talking about Afghanistan. I'm talking about the man you've killed in London."

John held Mycroft’s gaze then replied, “Yes, if you know, you'd know I did it to save Sherlock.”      

“Is this the soldier speaking, or the dragon?”

John pinched his lips together, “Which one will convince you better?”

“Neither.”

“Well then, if you have read the same report as I did, you'd also know that I am also a doctor.”

“That means you took an oath.”

“Yes, I did.”

“You promised to do no harm.”

“Under that circumstance, you'd rather have me let Sherlock die?”

“ _I will follow that system of regimen which, according to my ability and judgment, I consider for the benefit of my patients, and abstain from whatever is deleterious and mischievous._ ” Mycroft quoted, and John gave a mild furtive smile.

“ _Into whatever houses I enter, I will go into them for the benefit of the sick, and will abstain from every voluntary act of mischief and corruption,_ ” John recited, “The Hippocratic Oath. Like you said, according to my ability and judgment, for the benefit of the patient, in which case, I did it to save Sherlock. And to save Sherlock in the fastest, most efficient way, it is to eliminate the direct threat to his life, which is the cabbie.”

“You’re stating I’m the sick in that context.” Sherlock said, displeased, “I’m not sick, in any way.”

John hushed, “Making a point.”

Sherlock huffed, and flicked a green pea off his plate, sending it flying onto the floor. Mycroft frowned, and John was indifferent.

“You don’t regret your actions.”

Not a question, but a statement.

John gave a jerky nod, his eyes lost a bit of its shine, but his voice was strong, “I'd rather not stand over a body that belongs to a good man."

Sherlock fixed John a steady analyzing look. _Him, a good man?_

Mycroft’s shuttered expression faltered a bit, and then he turned around on his heel, heading towards the door, “Have a good evening, Sherlock. I’ll be seeing you again soon, Dr. Watson.”

Sherlock nodded in return and Mycroft left.

The door slammed shut downstairs and John continued eating despite losing his appetite with all the talking they did. From the corner of his eye he watch Sherlock push his fried rice around on his plate trying to make it seem like he ate.

“Not going to force you.” John said, sweeping the rest of his food into his mouth with his fork and then stood up with his empty plate, he extended a hand for Sherlock’s plate which the detective willingly gave up, “Go to bed.”

“I had two days worth of sleep. I’m going to conduct some experiments.”

“Fine. Don’t blow up the kitchen though.” John said, placing the dishes into the sink to wash later, “I’m knackered from today's drama. Don’t wake me unless you _really_ have to. And I meant that, for instance, if someone broke in and is going to murder you.”

Sherlock hummed, and stalked into the kitchen, plopping down on a chair before his beloved microscope, “I've no doubts you wouldn’t hear it if something like that happens.” 

John made a sound of acknowledgement and grabbed the box containing the collar, biding Sherlock good night, he made his way upstairs.

Shutting the door behind him, he released the glamour.

Shifting his wings behind his back, John curled up on the rug on the floor with the collar pressed against his chest. Pulling his wings around himself in a protective shield, John closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep to the sounds of Sherlock making miracles downstairs. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Oath, I took it from a book: SCOTT'S QUINTESSENTIAL MISCELLANY (p.133)
> 
> On another note:  
> What do you think of this chapter?  
> I'm slowly turning the story towards the series. Though there will be differences, but at the same time I'm also pondering whether I should have my own plot. A mixture of two? I think it will be for the best.  
> I'll be happy to know your thoughts!  
> (Have a merry Christmas!)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MERRY CHRISTMAS & A HAPPY NEW YEAR! THIS IS MY GIFT TO YOU!  
> ENTER THE TINY MESSENGERS!
> 
> Credit: (http://justalittleexploration.tumblr.com/post/32142413989)  
> Since it will never snow here, and all I will get is rain. The gif was just appropriate, and oh so mesmerizing.

* * *

 

“John!”

John piqued at the urgent call of his name, his nerves spelling danger to him at the unusual feeling in the atmosphere. A strange cloak of something -his instincts told him it was a spell- had blanketed 221B overnight in a invisible forcefield, it didn't signal hostility to him, but he didn't like not knowing why it was cast.

He would set out to find the source, right after he had tea.

"John!"

Leaning out the side door of the kitchen, he shouted down the stairs, “What?!”

“I’ve found something!” The detective yelled back up, voice flushed with the excitement of discovery. 

"Sherlock!" 

John cringed at the voice of their landlady.

"Must you do that?"

"Do what?" Sherlock's voice trailed up the stairs.

"Shout, my dear. The walls aren't soundproof! Mrs. Turner's married ones are complaining about the din." Mrs. Hudson scolded lightly, and John heard the detective make a rude snort of derision.

"They weren't really quiet in their  _activities_  too. I should bring the matter up to them personally." 

John sniggered. He remembered the way he snapped his gaze towards the sound so fast he had a crick in his neck afterwards, and the look on Sherlock’s face when he deduced what was happening. They laughed like a pair of mirthful boys they were and had to avoid looking at each other’s faces to prevent another laughing fit, but they utterly failed when he let out a snort at what he heard with his acute hearing.

"Sherlock!" John could hear the fluster in Mrs. Hudson’s voice, "You will  _not_  bother the couple!"

A few seconds of hesitation.

"Fine, but if it happens again, I will not be held responsible."

Mrs. Hudson tutted, but her tone was kind, “Don’t be too harsh on them, be kind with your words…but sometimes I do wonder how Mrs. Turner sleeps at night.”

Sherlock’s rumbly laughter echoed up the stairs.

"Now, if you boys are up for some pastry rolls, I could bring some up for the both of you later."

"I'm amendable to that." 

John retreated back into the kitchen to continue the process of making tea when the detective came barrelling up the stairs and into the kitchen, his camel colored ‘human organs type of experiments only’ dressing gown swishing behind him, hair mussed up, celadon orbs twinkling, “Uh oh.”

“What was that for?”

“You’re doing that look.” John said, adding a splash of milk into his tea as he waved his teaspoon at Sherlock’s face, “We both know what happens when you have that  _look._ ”

“What look?” Sherlock frowned, his teaspoon clinking at the sides of his teacup as he stirred his tea.

“You said you found something,” John cited, taking a sip of his tea, “What is it?”

Sherlock beamed, “A small series of numbers carved out on the third porch step.”

John straightened minutely, normally he would have asked the detective why in the world would he inspect the stairs but now his attention is utterly focused on finding out more, “Odd numbers?”

Sherlock furrowed his brows, “How did you know?”

John groaned a long deep sigh, relieved and dejected at the same time.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes in question.

John groaned and dropped into the chair behind him, “Great.”

Sherlock was unfazed by John’s apparent distress, his mind whirling out possibilities on the numbers he found, “The numbers must mean something. Code, couldn't be alphabets; too short to form possible common words. Symbols evolved to form phrases without being articulate. Probable.”

“Faeries, damn it.” John grunted, flinging his arms up into the air in a resigned gesture, “The odd numbers means they know I’m here, they know a dragon lives here now. My location is probably widely known in the fae community.”

Sherlock remained silent, but his eyes reflected a kind of evanescent incredulity.

“15395.” John recited and he saw Sherlock quirk a smile, ready to dismiss everything as mere speculations; he'd gotten the numbers wrong then.

“The sequence of numbers means nothing, but the place you found the numbers does. The faeries have always held a certain regard for odd numbers, it’s favoured over mean numbers. Odd numbers are considered as a positive sign. The place you found the numbers, on the steps leading up to 221B, they came into the house, even made it up the stairs a little, meant they were curious, and whatever they found were favourable. If I was no interest at all, they would have carved a sign on the front door, informing any passing fae that this place has been checked out and not worth going into.”

“I’m listening.” Sherlock said, leaning against the frame of the door; folding his arms.

John sighed, and crossed his arms, “There should be a dissertation on this.”

Sherlock raised a brow at that.

“It takes a long time to get you up to speed on the things I’ve seen and known since I was a hatchling.”

“For now, I just need to know why they are here.”

John smiled at the tone of Sherlock’s words; irked at something or someone infiltrating his home. Like a dragon.

“Actually, they were always around, every home has faeries, you can call them the guardians of the house, but they always wander about, never staying for long in one place to prevent rare instances of being seen by people other than the young. In this case, I doubt the faeries here will ever move, and before you ask why. I’m going into detail now. Faeries move for the sake of finding a hiding place, a place of safety and comfort, and in this case, as long I’m dwelling here meant I’m able to extend that sphere of safety to them, since the occupants under this roof are aware and accepting of the atypical.”

“A caretaker.”

John chuckled at the look of pure disdain, “In some ways.”

“ _Ugh._ ”

“It’s not that bad, you have your Homeless Network,” John suppressed a grin as he saw keen interest and comprehension lighting up in those brilliant eyes, “I have my own magical network.”

Sherlock clapped his hands together, a gleeful smile curling at his lips, “ _Oh! That is brilliant!"_

John bit the insides of his cheek to prevent himself from smiling, keeping his expression sober, he inclined his head, “Whatever you’re thinking, stop. It will put them in danger, expose them to the real world and you wouldn't want that to happen. Do you know what people normally do to things they can’t explain? They  _kill_  it.”

Sherlock grunted sourly, the beginnings of a full blown sulk in progress. 

John’s lips unconsciously twitched into a smile, “ _But_ , they are normally invisible to the human eyes. But to dragons, or other beings that have the ability, we can see them even if they don’t want us to,” John took a sip of tea and then continued, “Though recently they have evolved the ability to make themselves invisible to us too, so I can only see them when the timing is right.”

Sherlock perked, and John had to bite back a laugh so has to not offend the detective.

“You have to ask them if they are willing to engage themselves for a couple of crumbly treats. Don't get your hopes up though.”

"I'll manage." Sherlock smirked and John swore the detective is starting to plot something possibly quite evil and mischievous.

“So you believe me?”

Sherlock tilted his head to the side, “Why? You lying?”

John sniffed, “No.”

“There you have it.” Sherlock pushed himself away from the door frame and pick his cup up from the table, taking a small sip of the lukewarm tea; he peered over the ceramic rim of his cup, “Something else?"

John shrugged his shoulders, "Not quite. Faeries are typically harmless beings, unless you threaten them or harm their kin, but they have a soft spot for sweets, tiny as they are, they liberate food from you, and they only go for the good stuffs.”

Sherlock blinked before speaking, “That explains why all my chocolate biscuits disappeared so quickly.”

John laughed at the look of sudden realization crossing Sherlock’s features, “They can be useful in some ways too. They purify and protect the place and people that live in it, so in some way, we have our own live-in magical security slash eco system, which is also the reason why the flat feels different today. They have already started to initiate protection protocols over 221B, the numbers they carved on the step most definitely contain a spell.”

Sherlock nodded and took another sip of tea, not a speck of doubt in his eyes, seemingly to take the information  _really_  well to the point it made John ponder briefly what kind of things the detective had seen or heard in his life.  _Man of scientific reasoning._

The world is an infinitely wily thing, dragons like him are an unusual blip in society, and if Sherlock believes in him, he is sure the detective would believe other magical beings like faeries, and the other beings that belong in myth and legends.

John carried his mug of tea to his chair. Sherlock followed him and settled down in his own chair, “What is it?”

“When I woke up this morning, there is a round polished Lapis Lazuli stone on my pillow.”

John hummed and opened today’s newspaper, “I see.”

“Was that from the faeries?” Sherlock asked and then internally cringed at the way he phrased the question.

“ _Nope._ ”

“So, it’s you then.” Sherlock said, feeling the weight of the stone in his pocket, “What is it for?”

“A return gift,” John answered with his face obscured by the newspaper, “For the gold collar.”

“Signifying?”

John closed the newspaper and met Sherlock’s gaze, “Gratitude. Now leave me alone.”

Sherlock rubbed a thumb across the smooth surface of the stone, “Thank you.”

Behind the newspaper, John murmured softly, “You’re welcome.”

 

* * *

 

“What are you  _doing?!_  ” John shouted as he gestured to their dining table at the array of biscuits laid out on plates.

“Isn't it obvious?” Sherlock answered blatantly, “I'm trying to recruit a fairy.”

John flicked his gaze at the biscuits then back to Sherlock, and then he burst out laughing, doubling over as he placed a hand on the table for balance, his body shaking from laughter.

Sherlock watched on, insulted, “Stop laughing!”

John guffawed and his concentration slipped, the glamour broke and John curled up on the kitchen floor quaking with sonorous rumbles, his spiked tail thumping the floor behind him.

“John!”

 _Sorry, sorry._ John apologized, chuckling, he met Sherlock’s gaze and his lips curled back in a grin, a waff of smoke escaped through his parted jaws and he chortled; a deep rumbling sound.

“Proof, or they are not real.” Sherlock grumbled, and in his voice, John detected a slight hint of embarrassment. He could deal with anger, but embarrassment? Oh no.

John clenched his jaws and curled his tail just before Sherlock’s feet and gave the detective a short nod; he felt bad for laughing already.

 _I’ll call them out._  John shifted his wings, unfurling and folding them comfortably against his back.  _A word of caution, don’t ask them for their names, it’s considered an insult towards the fae._

“Why would I be interested in their names?”

John huffed a fume of smoke. _Not saying you do. To know their names, you could force them to do your bidding. There are many who though didn’t mean ill, but did so and had a bad…experience._

“I expect no less. Call them already.”

Craning his head up, John uttered a series of low guttural chirps.

Sherlock made a low deep inquiring sound at the back of his throat as he looked up at the ceiling.

 _Give them a moment._  John reassured and slowly at the corner of his eye, something sparkly twinkled into existence, the soft susurrus of something rustling echoed in his ears, and then amplified into a cacophony of fluttering wings.  _They are here._

“Where?”

John followed the tiny beings fast movements as they flitted around the kitchen, leaving glitters of energy in their wake, twittering out greetings in frequencies only he can hear.

_‘You called?’_

‘ _Greetings, Dragon.’_

_‘Woah! That’s a lot of treats! Can we eat?’_

_‘What’s up?’_

_‘Wait! Stop!’_

_‘What’s going on?’_

_‘Wow, his hair looks really curly and fluffy from here.’_

_‘Hey. Shut up. He can hear you.’_

_‘Ooohh, it’s that brand of chocolate biscuits again. Those were my favorites.’_

_‘No, he can’t. Maybe I can frolic around in it and he would think it was the wind.’_

_‘We’re indoors, dummy.’_

_‘Oh. He would know, wouldn’t he?’_

_‘Of course he would!’_

_Hello, please meet my friend, Sherlock Holmes._  John gestured to Sherlock who is currently frowning, looking at him as he exchanged pleasantries with the tiny fae with them cloaked in their protective barriers.  _He lives here and would like to make your acquaintance._

John shifted as the tiny celestial beings flitted around the detective, purple wings fluttering rapidly, green eyes twinkling, their intricate clothes glittering with sparks of magic, mysterious and entrancing; beyond ordinary.

John watch the faeries check the detective for hostility, flashing up and down the whole length of Sherlock’s height, from the mob of unruly curls to Sherlock’s bare feet. When they were certain, they settled onto the wooden dining table in a small assemblage, purple wings folding behind them as the plate of biscuits towered over them.

 _Show yourselves to him and you may receive these gifts._ John announced, tilting his head to the side when a fae hopped onto his snout, he huffed a puff of warm air, maybe a little too hard, and the fae shot up into the air squeaking in surprise. Wings fluttering in flight, the tiny fae rearranged the golden flower crown on its head, cheeks flushed from the heat.  _Oops._

After all the remaining fae gathered onto the table, the faeries chittered among themselves and then with a concluding chirp, they twirled around once and the protective barriers separating them from the real world dropped in a shimmer of light.

John knew the moment Sherlock saw them as the detective’s eyes widened and his lips parted slightly in mute fascination.

The bright little beings then trotted up to the plate, tiny hands reaching up and forward to grapple at the treats, nibbling at the biscuits.

John smiled at the rare expression of stunned enthrallment plastered across Sherlock’s features, but as quick as it appeared, it flickered away, and Sherlock dropped to a crouch, pushing a tall drinking glass to a standing fae. With a black Sharpie, the detective marked the height of the tiny being on the glass, indifferent to the sharp chirping of protest.

 _What was that for?_ The fae twittered miffed, tiny hands holding onto a half eaten chocolate biscuit.

 _He’s a naturally curious person, he means no harm, don’t mind him._ John answered, amused as Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the small group of tiny beings snacking on their dining table. Extending a long finger, Sherlock poked the back of an unsuspecting fae, the tiny being stumbled forward, and John snickered when the fae flew up and futilely swung a half eaten biscuit at the detective’s cheek.

“Why can’t I hear them speak?” Sherlock rose to his full height as the tiny, unfamiliar, rare, strange, and yet marvelous beings lilt about in the kitchen, he followed them with his eyes and caught John’s gaze.

 _Different frequencies. They can hear you though._  John stated, shaking his head as a couple of fae lingered near his head, tiny hands grasping his horns.  _Hey, stop that._

“What are they saying?” Sherlock followed a couple of fae around the kitchen as they whisked through the air in flight, purple gossamer like wings quivering in rapid beatings, eyes bright and shining, tiny hands gesturing around as they twittered in conversation.

_They’re saying- Hm. They said you have an interesting home, and that…wait. One at a time, oh. And Mrs. Hudson’s has a kind old soul, and they meant that literally. They like her…because of her brownies. Right…what? No, you were talking about old souls, and now brownies? What’s that got to do with- NO. It does not. Change the subject now. Good. They say, they arrived yesterday, lingered around, scoped the place out and stayed in the hallway downstairs._

Sherlock blew his breath out in a snort as John literal-translated the faeries words, “Nothing of importance.”

 _Hear that? Say something important._  John said and the faeries crossed their arms, chittering all at once. _They say they know of your grandmother. How-_

Sherlock frowned, and his silence meant more than it should.

 _She’s French. And she passed away when you were around…nine? She has a library, and she collects a wide variety of books._  John flicked his gaze to the fae who all started to linger on the dining table. _How do you know such things? How do you know she's Sherlock's grandmother? What? You heard him call her?  Why were you there? You were there all along? Protecting the library?_

Sherlock pursed his lips.

_And in a section of the library contains…oh god. Really? Contains books on us; creatures that are magic. Sherlock! You have to retrieve the books! Yes, yes. No, hmm? Wha- That cannot- Sherlock, we have to retrieve those books!_

“Those books are not of importance, they have no value to those who are ignorant.” Sherlock moved to his armchair and plopped down into the leather seat, crossing his legs, he continued, “Besides, I don’t see why it matters, no one would be looking.”

_Sherlock! There’s a book that is of utmost importance!  I don't really bother about the rest, but this, you have to get. It’s a book on spells!_

Sherlock sighed, “John.”

_I know how ridiculous this sounds, but it is a book of power. There is power in language, Sherlock. If one unknowing reads out a paragraph without knowing what it does, or draws up a rune from the book, the danger!_

"It's locked up behind steel gates, and sturdy doors, with members of family and staff in the premise. No one knows about my grandmother's collection, nor will they care. No one would be looking for something they don't even know exists."

_That's where you will be wrong. That book is of significance in the world of magic, and the people who wield it. They are searching for books like those, and the power within attracts them to the books location. The books are rare because of the power contained in those pages, people are willing to pay large sums for a glimpse of a page, not to mention to own a tome. It means a world of difference in the hands of the rightful and the ones who are not. Can you imagine the danger it will cause if landed in the wrong hands?_

"You exaggerate, John. It's unbecoming."

_It’s a book a necromancer uses!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've always believed there are things beyond comprehension living alongside us. Little, magical beings that snack on sweet stuffs left unattended at night.  
> Normally, it's pests but...I would like to think there's something less icky than ants or cockroaches.
> 
>  
> 
> BUT. NECROMANCERS.


	7. Announcement

Hello my dear readers,

No. I'm NOT discontinuing this fic. 

But this is no good news either.

I regret to inform you that from an unfortunate accident with a cup of milk tea pouring down onto my laptop keyboard, and through my horror stricken heart, the next chapter won't come so soon. 

I have it all typed out THIS MORNING. And The unexpected turn happened before I could post. I've pulled my laptop apart and cleaned up the mess. But my keyboard is not working, something about sensitive keys. (God damn it! Get your act together, keyboard!) Nor a attachment of a USB keyboard works on my laptop. How can it not work? I don't know. But I refuse to think its something worst. Something inside that has gone wonky.

I'm panicking that I need to buy a new laptop. But I could turn the laptop on. Just that...The keyboard won't work.

I've managed to save the files to a thumbdrive. So...until my laptop gains back it's literacy abilities in a form of a working keyboard (I'm gonna get a wireless or something tmr) and after my laptop reassures my paranoid heart that its not gonna sputter and die from a few caresses, I'll post the next chapter. 

I'm terribly sorry. I didn't want this to happen. 

I will post when I get this all worked out.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank those who has left a kind message in my previous post. Your wishes worked and my laptop survived like a warrior it is.  
> A trip to a electronics mall solved my keyboard problem, but I had a bad experience with the renowned blue screen of death days after.
> 
> Then I got sick.  
> And being sick made me doubt this entire chapter. Felt actual physical need to edit everything. So I did.  
> Editing made this a long one. 5K+ A little too lengthy for my tastes.  
> Either way, as it goes. Unbeta-ed.

The dragon hadn’t been pleased with him when he refused to make move to his grandmother’s estate to retrieve the books. Huffing under his breath, John took the task upon himself, turning to the fae and asked for coordinates. It only required John under ten minutes to gather what he needed for the impromptu mission, and set off out of the window in the room upstairs, taking to the air in a rush of wind and wings, bringing along a pair of faeries as GPS.

Sherlock spent some time experimenting with chemicals after John's departure; the faeries explored 221B, and scavenged small shiny objects on the ground.

While waiting for the settlement of residue at the bottom of a boiling tube, Sherlock added new logs into the unlit fireplace; contrary to what others think, he  _do_  care. Sometimes, in his own little methods, he’s nice that way. He gathered that the dragon likes the fire alive with flames and not the heat of a dying ember. The days are turning colder anyway…

He returned to his experiment and recorded the analysis in his small notebook.

After a little more fiddling, he got bored of it, and decided accept Mrs. Hudson’s sudden offer to join her for lunch.

* * *

Sherlock plucked at his violin, caring for it tenderly, and the faeries gradually gathered around him, eyes twinkling; anticipating. He played a verse from Bach and their eyes widened minutely, excited smiles curling at their lips, they lifted up in flight and flitted round him, leaving a evanesce trail of glitter as they twirled around to the notes.

Screeching his bow against the strings, the detective lowered his violin and turned to the faeries, speaking to them in an unfiltered way he normally direct towards the general public, the words were caustic and harsh in his subtle attempt to gauge their limits.

Turns out, the faeries were almost alike his dragon, his unkind, straightforward words were tolerated with a pithy remark, in this case was a sharp chirr and, what appears to be a mythical, universal version of  _‘God, please give me strength.’_  expression.

Which had so many interpretations when it crossed the golden dragon’s features; ranging from  _‘I’m going to gnaw at your ankles’_  to  _‘Would you like a sun-tan with dragon fire?’_

Sherlock believes John wouldn’t hurt him, not at least in a life threatening way, but the dramatics; it was almost as if the dragon had taken lessons.

Digging out an unused tablet, Sherlock booted the thing up and launched the memo app, placing it on the desk, he gestured to the tablet, “Are all of you literate?”

The faeries regarded him with another one of those uncanny expressions that said,  _‘Seriously, Sherlock?’_

Sherlock harrumphed, flopping down into his chair, “Go on then.”

The faeries neared the tablet and they didn’t give the slightest impression of being surprised or curious on how these things work. That either meant they were no stranger to technology or they're quick to adapt in their environments. _Either option is excellent._

One of the fae tapped the screen.

> _What brought this on?_

“I’m trying to recruit you.”

A few taps.

> _For?_

“Work.”

The fae skipped across the length of the tablet, rapidly tapping the screen.

> _We know what you do, if you mean chasing people around. No thanks._

Sherlock snorted as he read the message, “No. John and I can do the chasing. I need you to be my irregulars, sometimes I need intel and you can infiltrate places without being seen.”

> _Dangerous places?_

“Problem?” Sherlock furrowed his brows and crossed his arms, “I didn’t take you to as timorous beings.”

> _Certainly not._

“Good, I have enemies, and I strive to make more every day. If I have tasks I need completed, it carries a certain kind of danger.”

> _But at what cost?_

“What do you propose?”

The faeries chattered among themselves, and then went up to the tablet.

> _Mrs. Hudson’s brownies._

Sherlock squinted as the faeries hastily tapped the screen again.

> _Chocolate biscuits._

Another fae pushed forward and tapped the screen.

> _Whipped cream!_

“I only need a few of you, specifically, your invisibility which all of you evidently possess.” Sherlock said, and then asked, “Or do you each possess unique skill sets?”

They nodded; one by one they went up to the screen, typing out their quirks which vary from horticulture to elaborate spell casting to alchemy.

Sherlock observed with entranced attentiveness, committing each fae features and their own individuality differences in mind.

One of the fae stood out, not only is it taller, but in its eyes reflected an aura of rich intelligence enhanced by a youthful yet sagacious face; the golden flower crown perched atop ginger curls were much more intricate, littered with spots of small white blooms twisted round green vines.

“How many faeries are there here in 221B?” Sherlock asked and the little beings gestured to themselves, “Only nine? Counting the pair who went with John?”

They nodded.

“They specialise in?”

> _Spells, and Transmutation._

“And you're the oldest.” Sherlock directed to the taller fae, who gave a short nod, a small smile curling at its lips, “Horticulture. Spells. Alchemy. Divination. Healing. Conjuration. Enchantments,” Sherlock listed off as he turned his gaze upon each fae, “I’m not entirely sure The Work needs such skills.”

A fae surged forward to the tablet and quickly tapped the screen; Sherlock identified the tiny being as the one specialising in divination.

> _How'd you know?_

He raised a brow at that, “Predicting something?”

> _Maybe..._

“No good?”

> _A bit not good._

“You’re using John’s terms.”

> _Influenced._

Sherlock hummed and steeple his hands under his chin, “I need to think.”

The faeries chirped in response and fluttered up into flight, resuming their exploration of 221B. They sauntered on the edge of the bookshelves, pushing books out of the way, and peered at the titles crammed into the wood, occasionally one would twitter something and the other faeries would gather in a semi-circle, looking upon something hidden from view.

On occasion when Sherlock emerged from his mind palace, unmoving but aware of his surroundings, he’d find a few faeries on the arm of his chair, watching him, and he let them because he was also observing them; cataloguing their minute movements to mind. Each fae has gained their own folders, under the subset of John Watson, it was only appropriate since it was ultimately the dragon that brought the faeries.

Magic to him is as unfamiliar as the subject on philosophy or astronomy, but the degree of interest he had for the arts was as paramount as it is necessary for a man in his circumstances. He knew vaguely what the faeries were like now, their preferred foods, abilities, and specialities, but not their names, which John said would be rude and inadvisable to inquire.

For convenience sake, he would prefer to address the fae by their names, makes it easier to issue instructions to a particular fae. But if he can’t, then he will adapt by giving them names instead.

The detective watched them flit across the room to the space under the couch, where they gathered loose change on the floor, buttons, and the unusual sighting of sweets. Sherlock didn’t object them claiming ownership on any of them, his mind preoccupied at coming up with fitting names.

His eyes trailed after their quick forms, taking in their graceful whisk through the air, wings beating on their backs. They fluttered to the bison skull fixed over the cluttered desk which John and him both share, a few fae lingered on the horns for awhile, while the other faeries tracked through the mess on the table, and stared at the substantial sized Lapis Lazuli stone perched on the long wooden desk organiser. They idled there and each touched the surface of the stone, Sherlock haven’t had a clue why they did that, but they darted away after that, turning their attention to the clutter on the desk, hovering over the sheets of paper as they read, and dodging the mugs.

Next destination was the skull on the mantle, the framed up bat and beetles taxidermies, where they later got distracted in looking at themselves in the mirror. Thereafter was the unlit fireplace, which didn’t hold their attention for very long, subsequently was the Persian slipper, lying on the rug among old newspapers; empty.

The afternoon passed rather slowly, and Sherlock slouched in his armchair.

_Bored._

* * *

It was well into the evening when John and the pair of fae  _finally_  returned back to 221B, and they entered by the same way they exited. Sherlock knew that by the sounds coming down from upstairs; loud thumping, whooshing of extensive wings folding in a dull gust. 

For a moment, it was all silent, then the pair of fae came floating down the stairs, their forms lambent with light and gleaming with a light sprinkle of dew, dragging along a faint trail of crisp freshness with them.

Sherlock deduced they travelled through the forest from the estate when John trotted down the stairs cloaked in his glamour with a woven bag thrown over his shoulders, leaves entangled in the brown fabric. The dragon looked much more energetic than before, and certainly in a better mood.

The seated detective concludes that flying invigorates John, and the smile that curled at John’s lips further proved his point, all the more the dragon has to stay in dragon form, not veiled in glamour; cooped up.

The rest of the faeries that stayed behind in 221B surged forward in greeting, and John returned the chirps with a smile, settling his baggage onto the carpeted floor beside his puffy red chair with a heavy thump.

At the sound of that, instantaneously, the faeries spread across the flat, tiny hands weaving large archaic runes in thin air, lurid with silvery energy. The pair of spells specialised faeries worked together, plucking at the forming coils, conjuring spells under their breath, arming the immense arcane circle to create a central ward, the broadest, most complicated rune in 221B, they rigged it up at the wall where Sherlock usually pin up his cases; the barest of all walls in 221B. 

The arcane ward flared purple, sigils writhing, and the pair of fae both whispered a spell in unison, in response the rune glowed, blending itself into the background, where it pulsed and thrummed, covering the whole of the wall.

The other faeries, while also highly efficient with spell casting were a few steps behind the spells fae. 

Sweeping the circle open with a flick of a hand, the spells contained within writhed against its restrains and with a murmur of a word, the rune flamed white then dimmed to a light glimmer; the spell bounded within. Casting it to the walls of the living room, the rest of the faeries worked to extend it all around 221B in an encased sphere, further enabling the protection wards already set in place. 

The hibernating runes bloomed in activation, leeching energies from the faeries, and layered, entwining with the reinforced runes in a twisting motion, the sigils marked in the runes interweaved, locking together in completion, flaring purple as they faded into the walls with a shimmer.

The faeries sighed, hovering tiredly, waiting for the pair of spells faeries as they zipped around 221B, inspecting and checking the completed runes for loose ends. There must be none, since the faeries gave a sounding chirp to John as they fluttered by the dragon. 

"Yeah, thanks for the hard work." John said, looking up from his task of retrieving food plates and cups of cold tea from various locations, "See you later."

The faeries gave a brief nod in acknowledgement and disappeared. 

* * *

After conquering the mountain of unwashed dishes, John returned to the sitting room with mugs of freshly brewed tea, Sherlock is still in his chair, eyes flickering towards the wall behind him. His lips have already parted in question when Sherlock turned to him, face void of expressions, but he could detect the slight sense of confusion from the detective.

Sherlock met John’s eyes then looked over the dragon’s shoulder at the active wards covering the walls, blending over cabinets and shelves. It was just a dull glow, not quite noticeable, but since he knew it was there, everywhere he looked; he could still see it, it was distracting to the nth degree. 

“John.”

“Hmm?” John pressed Sherlock’s mug into the detective’s hands then followed Sherlock’s line of sight and looked at the wall, he croaked, “You can see?”

Sherlock pinched his lips together and pressed the pads of his fingers harder against the warm mug in his palms, “From your tone, I can infer I’m not supposed to.”

“Damn it.” John backtracked to take a seat opposite the detective, “Everything is going awry.”

“No good?”

“For you?” John gazed at the brown sack on the floor, "If you don’t mind being able to see things you wouldn’t be able to see in the past, then no.”

“Things.”

“Wards, creatures, or anything ethereal, this means you’re likely to be susceptible to such influence  _out there._ You may be aware of them, even if you don't want to. It started with the faeries revealing themselves to you or…it started with me. And the meeting initiated something dormant.”

Sherlock hummed, his poise calm but his mind was part  _‘????’_ and curiosity.

Taking Sherlock’s silence as a negative reaction, John ducked his head, “I truly am sorry."

Sherlock scoffed, waving off the guilt and apology as needless. Pinning the solemn dragon with a steady stare, he spoke lowly, “If you wouldn’t mind, I prefer to make my own evaluations.”

John pursed his lips, tilting his head, “You’re okay with this.”

Sherlock's lips twitched into a small smile, “A little too late to back out now, John.”

John sighed relieved.

“This glamour drains you, doesn’t it?” Sherlock asked, and without waiting for a reply, he remarked, “I don’t mind you speaking in my head.”

John made a squinting expression that scrunched up his nose, “And you know how?”

“You’re always mildly irritated.”

“Maybe that’s because you always do something to cause that. A fine example will be, leaving experiments in the washroom.”

“That experiment is crucial,” Sherlock countered.

“Crucial to my  _unwavering_  patience, that is.”

Sherlock scoffed, “Besides irritability, you fidget a lot; you can’t seem to stay still. Several times, I’d watched you restrain yourself from doing things that are considered draconic. For instance, consuming a whole slab of raw beef, if I wasn’t present, you would have unconsciously devoured it, and you’d attempted to reach into the lit fireplace to retrieve something; you aborted the action when I asked you to fetch my phone. Just yesterday, you dived out of your bedroom window, and nearly tumbled onto Mrs. Hudson’s planted herbs, for?”

“To grab my crossword.” John replied, glumly.

“Hm.” Sherlock took a sip of tea, John leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms, “You don’t need to keep up a human appearance at home. It’s just not necessary.”

John gave a deep sigh.

“John.”

“I’m doing this for myself.”

“ _Hm._ ”

John met the detective’s gaze and glared, “I will be what I want when I feel like it.”

Sherlock smiled, deciding to add a little more _incentive_ , and make it all about him. He knew the dragon to be stubborn, loyal, and never too comfortable to ask for anything without fear of inconveniencing others, so painfully English. So he would give John a reason, an excuse, and then insult him, that'll do it. People _love_ to contradict you.

"I rather like you on my shoulders,” Sherlock said then furrowed his brows in thought, “though you need to be a little lighter.”

“ _Rude._ ” John scolded, crossing his arms, eventually agreeing, “But since I can get a free ride, and make life a little difficult for you whenever we go out, I’ll be the dragon on your shoulders then.”

Sherlock smirked, victorious. _Easy-peasy._

John harrumphed, his line of sight drifting back to the bag on the floor, “Changing the subject completely…were you aware of the wards in your grandmother’s home, especially the library?”

“Don’t remember seeing any.” Sherlock balanced his mug on a cluttered side table and crossed his legs, “My memory is infallible.”

“Hmm,” John pulled the book bag towards him, “You could enter the library despite the wards and that is  _something_. The area around the library had aversion wards put up; makes one think they have somewhere important to be. Either you were made an exception, or you’re immune to the effect of the wards.”

Sherlock acknowledged with a nod and steeple his hands before his lips in contemplation.

“I can’t have these wards removed,” John gestured to the faint runes surrounding them, “because of the books, but they aren’t very obvious, unless you pay attention to them. It’s too late now, isn’t it?”

“Once you start looking, you can’t stop.” Sherlock affirmed.

John exhaled a deep breath, and rubbed his palms across his face, “God, I shouldn’t have brought the books here.”

“You said they were important.”

“And dangerous,” John added, “There are terrible tales of the destruction caused by it when wielded in the wrong hands.”

“Example?”

“The fall of Pompeii,” John answered, and Sherlock raised a brow, “The book presumably assumed another owner after that. Books that contain that sort of power have a conscience…feelings. It searches for a person whom is worthy, the one who was meant to have it, as they say, the book chooses the owner. And the person who has wronged it in some way, probably met an end as a result, you can fill in the blanks. Also, your grandmother is quite a lady, seeing the book stayed there in the library all these years.”

“She  _was_.” Sherlock corrected; a flicker of memories licked at the edges of his mind, golden fragments of his childhood.

_-Him aged seven, huddled in a cozy nook with an aging parchment on dragons while being surrounded by towering shelves of old books, parchments and dusty tomes, with the mellifluous voice of his grandmère humming a tune. Sometimes she spoke in a soft, gentle voice, he presumed she was speaking to herself, but when he sneaked a peek while hiding behind a mountain of books, the air around her seemed to be alive_ _, purified even; engaging in a conversation he couldn’t hear_   _with someone he couldn’t see.-_

“The library was surprisingly clean and undisturbed when we entered.” John said, pulling the tight knot loose, “The aversion wards really kept people away.”

_-Once he saw a page of a opened book flip by its own when there was no wind, or are the windows opened, but he ignored it and reached for a book on criminal masterminds situated on the top shelf while he tip toed on the top step of the step ladder. He remembered how his muscles protested fiercely, his legs shook and his arms hurt, he almost fell from a sudden wave of dizziness, he didn’t know what happened, but after he steadied himself on the ladder, he looked up and the book was gone; a hollowed gap in the tightly packed shelf. He almost gave up on the book when he found it on a shelf within reach, lying face down._

_He didn’t know how it got there._

_When he approached grandmère with his doubts and questions, she smiled and ruffled his curls lightly, saying he would understand it one day, he pushed on, but she would say no more. He brushed it off, labelled it as one of his imaginations, the library’s ambience always encouraged such thoughts._

_As he grew older, Sherlock knew it was more than that, on occasion he would feel gossamer light air currents drifting through the extensive and quiet library, caressing his nape and hair, it didn’t give him the chills or fill him with a sense of dread, instead it gave him a warm, strange sense of peace and belonging. He enjoyed being in the library with the aging tomes and the yellowed pages within, the books accepted him unlike the world outside. Without Redbeard, there is no point,_ _and so he stayed there-_

Sherlock shook his head lightly to dispel the memories that were starting to get unpleasant, “I assume you didn’t take anything else other than books?”

John made a weird sound as he untied the knot and pulled the bag open, the fabric slipped away to pool at the floor, and on the top of the stack was a crystal ashtray.

Sherlock looked pointedly at John, “That’s the ashtray from the library.”

“Yes.” John nodded.

Sherlock tilted his head to the side, “And you filched it.”

John cleared his throat a little sheepishly, “I succumbed to my draconic impulse.”

Sherlock pressed his lips together, resisting the urge to laugh, “Hm.”

John recognized that neutral expression and kicked the detective’s feet lightly, “Not funny.”

Sherlock chuckled, eyes twinkling.

“Git.” John huffed without bite and shuffled the tall tower of books, then singled a heavy tome out of the pile.

It was a golden paged tome wrapped in brown leather, weathered but had a dull lustre, and has no distinctive features; it was the kind of book one would easily overlook. Added that it didn’t have a conspicuous design, the only decorations were the golden thread lining the borders of the tome, and there was no title or author’s name on either the spine, front or back.

It was unremarkable and unmemorable in any way. The exact opposite of a spell book Sherlock had envisioned.

Sherlock made no move to take the tome when John handled it to him, “It’s not mine.”

“Well, technically I lifted it from your grandmother’s library…but they wouldn’t know its missing, unless your brother knows of its existence. Eh…Finders keepers?”

“Mycroft’s specialty is omniscience, he knows.” Sherlock said and on cue, his phone gave a ping, he gave it a glance and remarked, “Fifty-three minutes. Mycroft is getting slow.”

John pressed his lips together.

“He’s got surveillance on all of the Holmes estates,” Sherlock nudged his chin at the book bag at John’s feet, “Saw you leaving with that bag, and deduced you were there for the books.”

“Am I going to find myself incarcerated in the foreseeable future?” John asked, and then added, “Or am I going to get ambushed on the streets and get whisked away in a plate-less black van?”

Sherlock let out his breath in an airy scoff, “Don’t be ridiculous, John. No one would kidnap you.”

“The reason is I’m a dragon?”

Sherlock detected a hint of sourness in John’s tone and swept a hand before his face, as if deflecting the idea, “Nonsense. With the right tools and leverage, anyone could be kidnapped or forced into submission. Plus, Mycroft is not an idiot; he knows the books will be safer under the protection of a dragon. He just wants you to know that your actions are being watched. That’s all.”

“ _Damn it._ All your schemes and intrigue, here I thought I could be _free_ of them.” John growled, and then shoved the book in the detective’s face, “Just take the bloody book already.”

Sherlock scowled and grabbed the book, heaving it onto his lap, “What’s the use of this?”

“We shall see.” John announced as he got off his chair and released the glamour. Stretching his wings, he shifted on his feet, shaking his head to dispel the vestigial effects of the glamour; long term use of the glamour really takes a toll on the mind. John didn't know when Sherlock started taking note of his emotions and came up with that deduction, but he was glad the detective did, it really feels better to be free. John was ready to elaborate on the fact that Sherlock himself might very well be more than a genius in ways that he could have the ability to use magic when he caught the piercing stare directed at him. _Sherlock._

“Mmh.” Sherlock hummed, studying the titanium gold collar clasped round the dragon’s neck, he didn’t know how John managed to latch the thing without help, but the collar looked resplendent on the golden dragon, the large oval amethyst gem complementing the unusual blue of John’s eyes, which are currently boring straight at him.

_It's bad to stare._ John remarked, his spiked tail twitching at his feet.

“I don’t stare. I observe.” Sherlock corrected, running a hand across the tome in his lap, the leather smooth and cool, “The collar. It's nice on you.”

John blinked surprised at the compliment, and then turned his head away almost bashfully.  _Should I be asking for a motive? You rarely compliment others unless they have something you need._

“Compliments are a highly preferred currency.” Sherlock stated, running a finger down the tome’s spine absently, “I seldom give out compliments, makes it special, hence cherished. You should try it.”

_I believe it only applies to you._ John exhaled a fume of smoke as he rumbled deep in his throat, turning to the mantle, he spat a ball of flame into the fireplace setting the stacked stumps on fire. The fire flickered and licked up the wood, crackling and spitting. The room gradually warmed and John curled up before the fire, his tail curling at the foot of Sherlock’s feet, eyes fixed on the detective reclining in his armchair with the grimoire in his lap.  _You were able to see the protective wards, means you’re able to cast, at least, a little. Try it. I’m here to help if anything goes wrong. Remember there might be a cost in casting spells, if you feel ill or anything, stop immediately._

“You really inspire confidence.” Sherlock grumbled and John flop his tail over the detective’s feet in silent assurance.

Straightening his back as he shifted his wings behind him, John watched the detective intently, ready to intervene if necessary.

Sherlock sighed, smoothing a palm over the weathered leather bound tome and pried the book open, careful of the yellowed pages which are, surprisingly still in pristine condition.

He skimmed through the golden edged page, unable to recognize a single thing; it all appears to be a mass of cursive ink, written in the hand of a drunk and drawn by a toddler, totally inconclusive. It was worth more trouble than it was useful, and Sherlock was ready to make his displeasure known to John about the absolute futility of this when slowly but steadily, he was able to process the cursive lines of black ink and scribbles.

It was as though he had a decryption key in his mind, churning out lines of spells, and revealing complicated sigils and runes. He ran his gaze over the page again and instantly recognized the language written: English. _How uneventful._  

Sherlock browsed the current chapter, searching for anything unusual when his attention drifted to the middle of the page, among lines and descriptions of spells, written in graceful cursive, a spell word glared back at him. Before he could comprehend what he was doing, in a low voice, it was out of his lips, “ ** _minute._** ”

John yelped and screeched at the sudden tingling sensation starting at his feet, it surged up, all the way to his tail, and he beat his wings in instinct to get away, creating gusts of wind, sending paper including dust flying. However, as quick as it occurred it was over, in addition to his shock and surprise, everything seemed _bigger and taller._

John stopped flapping his wings and tumbled down onto the rug, rolling onto his feet, he glanced up at the detective and noted with brief horror that those iridescent eyes appears to be glowing with a familiar yet foreign light. He stared just as the unnatural glow dimmed in those orbs, and the inherent focus he knew so well returned.

The dragon knew what kind of magic users has such distinctive traits when casting, since he had unluckily crossed paths with one before. And he was glad he ever had the misfortune of meeting only one in his life, and lived to tell the tale; the complete, exact opposite of Sherlock.

The glow that he noticed from his unlucky meeting was dark and gelatinous, shimmering like a galaxy contained within; the aura of a manipulator of magic gone wrong. Unlike the light from Sherlock’s eyes which is a spectrum of light; opalescent. Bright. Incandescent. Radiant.

The gleam of a righteous soul.

_Oh god…Oh my god, Sherlock._

Sherlock looked up from the book, blinking, and there, sitting on the floor on his rump was John in his miniature form, wide-eyed and stunned, his jaws agape. The dragon didn’t blink nor move, just when Sherlock was starting to get worried he did something possibly a little more than a bit no good, John grinned a wide smile, all sharp teeth and warm breath, beating his wings so zealously that he hovered.  _Holy CRAP! Sherlock! Oh my gods!_

Sherlock stared at the miniature dragon as John exclaimed loudly in his head, he mirrored John’s grin and the book in his lap started to flip in response, turning till it stopped at a marked page, he scanned the page and at the bottom, a reverse spell.

“ ** _regress._** ”

In a blink, John is back in his hulking form, and he is quaking with sonorous laughter, fumes of grey escaping through his jaws as he exclaimed.  _You'll never cease to amaze me, Sherlock! This is amazing!_

Sherlock lowered his head to hide his smile, running a finger down the page, he cleared his throat, “Now, let’s see if I can do more than that.”

_No, no, no, no, NO! No explosions! No summoning!_

“I wasn’t thinking about that,” Sherlock replied, and then he shrugged at _the look_ in the dragon’s eyes, “Okay, it has crossed my mind.”

_Spells like those are difficult to handle and may sap your energy, or worst your life. Before we could do that, you will need to train, and most importantly we need to identify the cost of casting. Speaking of which, how do you feel? Anything feels abnormal?_

Sherlock did a mental check on his person, and he shook his head, “I feel fine.”

_No aches. No itches, no impending sense of doom? No pain?_

“None.”

_Nonetheless, it would be wise to try something small. Erm. Try levitating something. A cup maybe._ John nudged his head towards Sherlock’s mug.  _If you could do it, maybe you can scare the bejesus out of Mycroft with floating lights when he comes round next time._

Sherlock hummed, flipping the pages to find that particular spell, he paused at the third flip, read the description thoroughly and then looked up towards his mug. Keeping his eyes fixed on the porcelain, he muttered, “ _ **rise.** ”_

The mug shook, clattering on the surface, and then slowly rose up into the air, dipping several times, it wavered unsteadily then held level at the height of the bison skull. John rolled on the floor as he laughed, tail whipping the air behind him.  _OH HELL YEAH!_

Sherlock turned his focus away to gaze at the golden dragon, and the spell was broken. The hovering mug fell, smashing onto the cluttered surface of the side table with a loud shatter, sending shards of porcelain and splashes of tea everywhere. It made a horrible mess, and cleaning it up would be difficult but the both of them couldn’t be bothered, far too occupied with laughing at the thrill of success over Sherlock's new-found ability.

The book glowed faintly, and at the moment unknown to either of them, on the leather cover of the tome, a first letter etched itself into the surface.

In a graceful cursive:

_H_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I was a tinny mushroom, I was told a superstition/folklore that books have feelings and you shouldn't walk over them, it's considered rude, and that the book will make you dumb if you do. God knows where this came from...  
> I think my mom just wants me to be tidy and not leave books lying around eh?
> 
> And yes. Sherlock. Yes.  
> Next chapter will _probably_ be a short one. Maybe. 
> 
> Let me know your thoughts/inspirations/feelings about this chapter! Comments keep me alive, and most importantly motivated!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I closed my eyes and clicked 'Post Chapter' button.  
> I’ve done it.  
> I had so many ‘I must be a genius’ moments I drove myself crazy.  
> Then I regretted my decisions...then proceeded to doubt everything.  
> It's a painful, arduous process. Nevertheless! The curtain rises!
> 
> And since the next chapter won't come soon, let me take this perfect opportunity to wish all my Chinese/Asian readers out there, a (early) very prosperous Chinese New Year! 新年快乐！万事大吉！ 福寿安康！  
> I could go on but...Yeah. Happy Chinese new year. :) 红包拿来~！ Just kidding. Don't flame me.
> 
> As always. Un-betaed

Initially, he thought he was crazy thinking about it, let alone voicing it out, suggesting it to the bored consulting detective.

But the man looked positively bored out of his skull, lounging around 221B with an air of mild restlessness, continuously thinking upside down in his chair with his legs over the back of the chair, hair brushing the floor.

After the incipient burst of enthusiasm upon finding out his new ability died down, not even the spell book containing  _possibly_  a hundred thousand of spells could entertain him; that much says a lot of Sherlock, magic to him is not of importance, the Work is. His consults to the newspapers were futile, London’s criminals were quiet, and Scotland Yard cases were apparently too beneath him, in Sherlock’s words,  _‘So blindingly obvious even a child could’ve solved it.’_

Needless to say, Detective Inspector Lestrade wasn’t too pleased to hear that, but John placated the D.I over the phone that they would meet out for a pint in the near future so they could talk about their favourite detective with a charming personality. Lestrade grudgingly agreed, and John sighed at the fatigue in the D.I’s voice, like he had too many coffees and the caffeine is the only thing keeping him upright at the moment. Dropping a brief assurance that he would talk the detective around to take a look at the current case, he hung up, and that’s when catalyst for trouble walked in.

The British Government: Mycroft, dropping by unexpectedly in his usual regal way and announced to Sherlock that they would need to have a chat regarding his new-found abilities. The Holmes brothers exchanged thinly veiled insults like they always do, and the government official excused himself, proclaiming he had a meeting with the prime minister. There were no more further insights on the matter.

John doesn’t think this chat would end well, judging from the book throwing, newspaper flinging, and growling of invectives Sherlock did after the door closed downstairs.

“How about I take you flying?”

It was out of his lips the moment he thought of it.

And the result was instantaneous.

Sherlock stopped mid tirade and spun to face him, his eyes doing that blinking thing when he’s stunned or caught off guard, it took the detective awhile to speak, and when he did his voice was hesitant.

“Flying? You mean…over London? You mean…you will? Me?”

John swallowed; he can’t retract his words anymore, not when the detective is staring at him with a masked expression of delight and hope.

“Yes. So stop destroying our flat and go change into something warm.”

Sherlock stared at him, his arms hanging at his sides.

John took a deep breath, “If you rather not-”

Sherlock dropped the book onto the floor and stalked to his room without a backward glance.

John smirked and let the glamour drop, skulking to the bottom of the steps leading upstairs, he craned his neck towards the detective’s room.  _When you’re done, come upstairs. We’ll set off through the window, okay?_

“Upstairs!” Sherlock hollered in response, and John trotted upstairs to his room where the single window in the room had been refurbished to accommodate his dragon form’s girth for ease of exit and entrance; an entire wall demolished to be replaced with tempered glass doors that opens inwards.

The advantages of having a takeoff exit back here serves them the secrecy and discretion of the back alley, it’s a dead end lined with small hedges and trees. No one would ever bother coming out here unless they wanted to tend to their small garden located out back, and Mrs. Hudson is the only one in the entire block interested in gardening and growing her own herbs.

Added that at this time of the day when the sun is at its highest, the building opposite them has all their curtains drawn, so he had no worries anyone would see a dragon diving out of the second floor.

John poked his head out of the opened glass doors anyway and glanced around for potential eyewitnesses.

John only had to wait less than ten minutes before Sherlock came trotting up the stairs and into his room, and after a few words of caution of what not to do, and what to do while they are airborne, he taught Sherlock how to help gear him up for flight in an army dispensed harness usually used to transport the injured; hence makes it secure for a first time flyer on a dragon.

Once the detective is seated securely upon his shoulders and given him the go ahead, John took a few steps back and then dived out of the opened doors.

Unfurling his wings, he swoop up and away from their plummet and into the air in swift ascent, beating his wings, he propelled them up into the air, relishing the rush of wind and the loud sharp intake of breath from the detective.

Ascending high above the skies, John pushed himself forward, zipping through the air at fast accelerations, the wind gliding under and over his wingspan as he whizzed through London’s skyline.

He heard the detective say something over the roar of wind, a large hand patted his neck and he crooned in response. Assuming the detective wanted to go higher, he flapped his wings harder, and brought them higher up into the wispy clouds.

He didn’t expect it when Sherlock pulled at the harness grip, just like he told Sherlock to do when something is wrong. John squawked, rearing backwards, habitually spreading his wings open to an emergency stop, tail lashing behind him trying to regain stability as he hovered in the air, wings beating steadily to keep them airborne.

_Sherlock, what’s wrong? Are you feeling ill? Do you want me to descend now?_

Sherlock shifted minutely on the golden’s dragon’s shoulders as far as the straps around his thighs would allow him. He looked down at the sight of London stretched out beneath them. They were currently over Buckingham Palace, not low enough to gain attention, but not high enough to go unnoticed. He could see tourists milling around the site taking photos, chatting, referring to maps, an observant lot pointed to the sky and many followed the line of sight, cameras raised; they were spotted and are being photographed.

 _Sherlock?_ John turned his head back and nudged the zoning detective to attention.  _You okay?_

Sherlock tightened his grip on the leather handles, “I’m fine, John. Just go a little slower. I can’t remember the sights that fast.”

John rumbled in his throat.  _You’re updating the map of London in your mind palace aren’t you?_

Sherlock lightly kicked his heels back against the golden dragon’s chest, “Wasn’t going to let such an opportune moment slip by.”

_Okay, fine, where?_

“Baker Street.”

_You want to go back to the start? Can’t you-_

“No.” Sherlock interrupted.

_Alright, hang on tight._

John felt the grip on the harness tighten, and with a few beats of his wings he turned them around and flew all the way back to Baker Street.

* * *

They spent hours in flight while Sherlock mapped out London in his mind palace; several times he had John hover over a building while he took a closer look at something, something about a peculiar shop; the golden dragon didn’t inquire.

Other times, he had John whizz along the stretch of the road.

They didn’t stop for anything. They just flew.

Gliding through the skies of London, John sighed, inhaling deep breaths as he soared, the detective on his back was silent and the dragon didn’t feel the need to strike up a conversation. Didn’t have to turn to see Sherlock’s expression but he knew the detective is taking in the picturesque sight of his beloved city, registering all alleyways and dead-ends, all the traffic turns and lights, absorbing every little detail, cataloguing.

The firm weight on his shoulders shifted slightly, and large hands pressed the sides of his neck for support, he rumbled deep in his throat at the similarities.

Sherlock letting him hitch a ride on the streets of London, and him in return taking Sherlock for an outing in the skies of London. Trusted him enough to let him fly him up into the skies; thousands of feet above the ground.

If this isn’t trust, he doesn’t know what is.

The hands on his neck jerked, and the familiar baritone sounded behind him, “John?”

_Nothing’s wrong, Sherlock. Want to go higher?_

The detective murmured in agreement and John beat his wings, ascending higher up into the skies and above the clouds where the sounds of the city so far below them were just muffled drones.

The world stretched out before them, vast and white.

They were so disconnected from the hustle and bustle of the city; the constant need to accomplish something,

Up here, moving among clouds, there is nothing but peace; tranquil.

_Free._

The rays of sunshine filtering through the wispy clouds were warm, the air is cool and rarefied, and all was quiet, except for the distant roaring of airplanes.

And the shrill sound of an incoming call.

_Sherlock?_

“Mycroft,” Sherlock replied, and then answered the call with the right amount of irritation, “I’m busy.”

John tilted his head back and strained to hear the conversation over the roar of wind but he could only catch snippets. Something about tracking and his movements were too fast.

“Flying with John,” Sherlock remarked, and then sighed, “Fine. Stay there, make yourself useful and turn on the kettle, won’t you?”

Then with a click, shuffle of heavy fabric, the detective shifted on his shoulders.

_Want to go home?_

“Home.” Sherlock said, and John flapped his wings, changing the course of his flight and headed towards the direction of Baker Street.

* * *

He had assumed, foolishly as it turns out, that Sherlock would be a little more careful with magic, something that could possibly blow up in your face if not careful.

Oh, he was  _so wrong_.

 _This is a disaster._ John pondered as Sherlock levitated three cups at once, the kitchen floor littered with shards of porcelain. Frankly, John doesn’t think a single cup will survive the day, and he feared the detective might move on to plates when they are out.  _We need more cups, Sherlock._

“It seems wrong to assume you’re against this, John.” Sherlock remarked, keeping his gaze on the three cups hovering in midair, “We’ll go out later to get more.”

_You were right, Sherlock._

“Often am, you’ve to be more specific, John.” Sherlock said, delicately picking a hovering cup out of the air, and then carefully placing it back in its levitating space. The cup wavered, dipped in the air a few times, and then smashed onto the kitchen tiles, “ _Ugh._ ”

John growled, and snapped his attention to the kitchen at the ridiculous detective standing in a circle of smashed cups.  _What did the cups ever do to you?_

“I wasn’t sure they could do anything to me, but I'm not so certain about others.” Sherlock said, picking the surviving cups out of the air and settling them on the kitchen table, he swiped a hand over the opened spell book and the pages flipped in response, he glanced through the leaf to locate a particular spell and hummed, “ ** _weaponize._** ”

The ceramic shards on the ground before Sherlock clinked, and rose steadily. Rotating, the shards chipped to form sharp tips, the levitating shards changing into innumerable spears of all sizes, waiting to be impaled into something unfortunate or someone threatening.

Sherlock held the spell firmly, and when he deemed it enough, with a wave of a hand, the spell was diffused and the shards dropped back down onto the floor with sharp clinks.

 _Your skills are advancing, really fast._ John pointed out as the hefty tome glowed faintly in reaction to the detective’s handling.

Sherlock made a sound in response, not looking up from the tome, and then with a hand extended before him, he murmured, “ ** _shield._** ”

An arcane rune immediately spread into existence at his fingertips, broadening to conform to the detective’s height, purple sigils and archaic markings held within flared as the rune rotated clockwise before the detective in a protective screen. It took mere seconds to materialize and the detective held the spell up and steady.

John opened his jaws and spit a small ball of flame towards Sherlock, the protection ward flared like it should, dispersing his attack efficiently, dissipating it into a light waft of smoke, but the detective took a step back from the heat. It would be terribly handy in long-ranged fight, though John has to test if bullets and modern weapons could be deflected. 

_The report from the hospital said you’re healthy, but that doesn’t mean casting is not slowly costing you your life. Mycroft had to leave for unscheduled business, but he did fill you in on your family background and lineage, even left you a box of stuffs. Something you didn’t bother finding out when you were a child._

“If it is, I would know, but since I’m functioning well enough, I can safely assume casting has no damage to my person. And like you’ve said, my lineage. I didn’t bother since it was useless. People fill their heads with all sorts of things, makes it hard to get to the things that are important, don’t you see?” Sherlock answered as he consulted the spell book, “ ** _enhance._** ” Another rune flared into existence at his command, layering over the existing rune in a glow.

_But it’s your family background!_

Sherlock sighed in frustration, “ _Ugh!_  Why does it  _matter?!_  So I come from a line of warlocks, necromancers or whatever you want to call it, it doesn’t make any difference!”

 _It makes a difference because you’re the only one!_ John spat another fireball towards the detective and as usual, his attack was deflected but this time the detective remained still.  _Mycroft doesn’t have the ability. You’re the only one in the family._

Sherlock snorted, flicking a hand to dismiss the arcane shield, “Should I be flattered?”

John exhaled a fume of smoke and huffed, twitching his spike tail against the carpeted floor.  _I don’t know, maybe._

“Should I also be  _flattered_ you’ve taken to writing up my cases?” Sherlock remarked as he gathered the set out dustpan and broom in hand.

John stilled, there was a moment of silence, only the sounds of porcelain shards clinking onto the dustpan as Sherlock swept. When Sherlock spoke again, his words were a matter of fact.

“Your password was easy to guess. Took me less than a minute, from there it’s just a scroll through your browser history. A rather accurate account I must say-”

 _So you like it._  John blinked, surprised.

“-Though you excluded all the parts that matter, like how I came to a conclusion. Replacing them with sentences, for example, ‘Sherlock sees through everything and everyone in seconds, but what’s incredible, though is how  _spectacularly ignorant_  he is about some things.’” Sherlock finished as he emptied the dustpan into a bin.

_Hang on, I didn’t mean it like that…_

“Oh, you meant spectacularly ignorant in a  _nice way_ …look it doesn’t matter who’s prime minister, or who is sleeping with who.”

John clenched his jaws and huffed, whipping his tail to hit the legs of an antique table. _You’re making it hard for people to connect with you, Sherlock._

“I don’t need people to  _connect_  with me, John.” Sherlock flipped the spell book close and grabbed the tome, stalking towards the couch, “They bore me with their crushing banality. And why would I need another conversationalist when I already have you?”

John clenched his jaws and shifted his wings, he knows how to deal with prickly words said out of anger, he would usually just walk away, but he didn’t know how to counter a reply so solemn. The sentiment is thick in Sherlock’s words, so utterly unlike the detective, the rarity of the expression made his heart warm, and any dregs of displeasure he took to Sherlock’s previous words vanished.

Exhaling a fume of smoke out of his nostrils, he curled his tail at his feet.  _I’m going out for a pint with Greg later, so I can’t accompany you to get more cups._

“Who?”

_Gregory Lestrade, for short, Greg._

“I thought his name was Graham.”

John chuckled.  _You can list 240 cigarette ashes from the top of your head but you can’t remember Lestrade’s name._

“243.” Sherlock corrected, flopping onto the couch in a sulk, the tome placed on his abdomen where he traced the single letter on the cover absently.

John tilted his head in amusement.  _So I’ll be back late. Are you too?_

Sherlock hummed, “We will get cups tomorrow.”

_Okay then, I’ll keep my ears open for any interesting cases; maybe a man would boast to his mates at the next table about sticking his mother-in-law in a shredder and burying her remains in his garden._

Sherlock grunted, turning to his side and curling into himself in a forlorn gesture.

John sighed.  _What about Molly? Any new human body parts to experiment on?_

“Not answering my texts.”

_Huh…Didn’t think that would stop you from asking._

Sherlock harrumphed, “You’re going to be late for your meeting if you don’t depart now. The bar you’re going to takes thirty minutes on foot and ten by cab. I’m sure you’d want to save whatever you could, since your pay check doesn’t come in till next week.”

 _How did you- never mind._ John shifted to his feet and wrapped the glamour around himself. Pulling at his clothes to smoothen out creases, John combed a hand through his blond hair to get it in order, “I’ll see you then. Oh, and I left vials of my blood in the cold food box.”

Sherlock hummed and nodded.

“For your experiment  _only_ , I trust you wouldn’t use it on yourself, right?”

Sherlock closed his eyes in response.

“You better not, Sherlock.”

“Just go, John.”

The moment the door slammed downstairs, Sherlock dug into the cushions behind and pulled out a small spell book that won’t open. Something Mycroft included in the box of stuffs he brought over from their childhood home.

The tome on his stomach glowed in reaction to the proximity of the book and a series of letters etched itself into the leather surface.

Sherlock watch it gradually appear in the same cursive.

_OLMES_

The faeries in 221B chirped, fluttering down to perch on the low coffee table while Sherlock traced the words with a finger.

_HOLMES_

The divination fae, whom Sherlock named Almond hopped onto the detective’s arm and chittered. Sherlock looked at the tiny fae and turned towards the direction of the fae was pointing.

Sherlock lifted the tablet off the table and read the sentence typed out.

> _A dark cloud hangs overhead. A formidable adversary nears. That book you’re holding is essential. Do not give it away readily._

“Cost of doing business.” Sherlock answered, Almond chirped, shaking its head, then flew forward and tapped the screen.

> _That book holds the forbidden spells that’s why it’s sealed. Not anyone knows how to open it. But there’s a way. And if you count bloodshed, human lives, a cost of doing business, then I shan't share that information with you at the moment._

Sherlock stared at the fae and sighed, “Not if I can prevent it.”

Almond tapped the screen again, flitting back and forth.

> _I’m not certain you could. I’ve never seen such a revelation before. This approaching adversary is a harbinger of death, someone will definitely die. And I would rather it not be you. For all our sakes, thread lightly, and it shall pass too._

Sherlock read the grave reply then murmured, “You’re warning me of my decisions.”

Almond chirped and nodded, tapping the screen again.

> _It won’t hurt to think twice, Sherlock._

* * *

“Oh, what is  _this?_ ” John gestured to the plate filled with greens Sherlock placed in front of him. He turned and looked at the lengthy queue lining the cashier of a self service restaurant they found themselves in; too late to get his own food.

“Can’t you see? It’s a burger.” Sherlock said, settling himself in one of the comfortable chairs, rustling through the bags of shopping placed in one of the adjacent chairs, “These are nice cups, John. Did you buy the- You’ve gotten the wrong brand.”

John ignored the detective’s complaint and ranted on, “I asked for a hamburger, Sherlock. With  _meat from a cow_  minced into a burger patty, this is a  _vegetarian_  burger. Why are you trying to  _ruin_  my life?”

“I’m trying to  _extend_  your life. Just eat it.” Sherlock replied, not looking up as he rummaged through their shopping.

“No.” John said, then flicked a piece of lettuce away with his fork, “Hey, where are the chips?”

Sherlock looked up from the bags and then gestured with a hand to the plate, “You have carrot sticks.”

“No, no, no _, nooo_. Sherlock,” John bemoaned, sagging back against the chair seat, energy plummeting from hunger and speechlessness, “I don’t want carrot sticks.”

“You now do.” Sherlock smirked as he opened the pack of nicotine patches.

“ _Ohhhh…_ is this because of that  _thing?_  Are you extracting revenge right now?” John lifted his head, a small grin curling at his lips, “It was only once! But in my defence, it was very funny, if you’d seen the look on your face when it happened!”

John chuckled, remembering the morning he set the timer to go off to Sherlock entering the kitchen in the morning for his morning coffee, and the contorted look of shock crossing the detective’s face as he jumped when their toaster popped two slices of bread up into the air. The disadvantage of being a creature of habit is to be a victim to pranks, and John is making use of it.

Sherlock sniggered despite not wanting to, and pasted a patch on his inner wrist, “Have I told you that you have a vivid imagination?”

“You just did, Sherlock.” John flipped the top bun over the portobello mushroom patty and pushed the plate away from him, “But I’m still not eating this.”

“Too bad,” Sherlock pinched a slice of tomato and popped it in his mouth, “I shall eat it then.”

John huffed, “Go ahead, it‘s all yours.”

Sherlock picked on the food and only took a bite of the veggie burger before concluding it was horrible.

John tutted, shaking his head and grabbed the bags off the seat, “I suggest we get something else, before we head to Bart’s. Feeling hungry in the morgue is not how I’d like my afternoon to proceed.”

Sherlock agreed.

* * *

“John, I require your expertise.” Sherlock called over the laid out form of a two day old male cadaver.

John dropped the medical report he’s reading and approached the slouching detective, “Yeah?”

Sherlock didn’t say another word but grabbed the dragon’s gloved hand, pressing it against the corpse’s chest, “What do you think?”

John pinched his lips, “What’s there to think? Died from a heart attack, found dead a day ago by his housekeeper, what’s so peculiar about this?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Don’t you think it feels weird?”

John pulled his hand out under Sherlock’s palm gently, and then ran a hand down the corpse’s chest, rubbing his fingers together. He squint his eyes and examined the cadaver closely then looked up, meeting Sherlock’s eyes, “Okay. This is a little…strange. Autopsy has been done…the one who did it…is…”

“Molly. I’ve consulted the chart.” Sherlock said, gesturing to the clipboard on another autopsy table, “It’s time to call her in.”

* * *

“Hey, you’ve got something?” A brunette asked as she entered the morgue, she smiled upon seeing the detective and she waved at John standing beside Sherlock. John returned her greeting with a smile and a nod of his head.

“Molly, did you notice anything strange while doing this man’s autopsy?” Sherlock queried, John stood nearby, silent.

The atmosphere in the morgue was tense and weird, but Molly didn’t pay any attention to it. Morgues were always sombre in some way despite the bright fluorescent lights in the ceilings.

“Erm…no, all organs were intact at time of death. Died from a heart attack,” The pathologist said as she pulled on a pair of disposable gloves, “Was there anything strange?”

“Did you notice his skin?” Sherlock refuted, “From the chart, he isn’t scheduled for embalmment yet, not till tomorrow. So unless it’s down to clerical error, there’s a need of explanation.”

The smile slipped away from the female pathologist’s face as she leaned over the cadaver, eyes hard with concentration, she prodded the corpse clinically and then furrowed her brows in confusion.

Sherlock stared at the cadaver and then took an involuntary step back when the corpse started to glow, he turned to John and met the dragon’s eyes, both of them could see it, but evidently, Molly could not since she is still hovering over the corpse, prodding the slightly translucent sheen the corpse has gained post-mortem.

Sherlock breathed a little louder when the slight white glow changed to a muted red, like an aura shrouding the form. Whatever is happening, it certainly isn’t good.

John took a step forward, his mind coming up with excuses to get them away from this, “Molly, I think we should put this down to paperwork error.”

The pathologist seemed a little affronted at the idea, “I’ve never seen such a symptom before. There has to be a medical if not, a scientific explanation.”

“I’m not sure you can find a scientific explanation for this.” John stared at the glow which is rapidly gaining a crimson hue as the seconds ticked,  _screw being tactful_ , “Molly,  _step back_  from the body right _now!_ ”

“What are you going on about, John?” Molly asked, but did so when she saw the detective take a few steps back, a flicker of dread crossing his usually indifferent features; she felt a sliver of fear creep down her spine, “Sherlock,  _what’s_ going on?”

The detective remained silent, eyes fixed on the cadaver on the table, but he took a few long steps towards the exit, and out the doors. Perturbed by the detective’s apprehensiveness, Molly followed, confused and anxious.

“ _Oh shit!_ ” John shouted as the crimson hue darkened, blackening, a high frequency ring rang in his ears and he didn’t think twice and released the glamour. Wings unfurling, he screeched, leaping out of the morgue in a blur, and Sherlock dropped to the ground, pulling Molly with him. Covering the forms with his body, John pulled his wings around the huddle under him, drew his ears shut and braced for impact.

* * *

It was a huge explosion that ripped the morgue doors off its frame, and the hospital vibrated a moment with the shockwave thundering through the hallways, and everyone froze in whatever he or she had been doing, wondering what the hell was going on. Someone activated the fire alarm and the shrill piercing sound rang throughout the hospital.

John opened his eyes slowly, waiting for any sign of delayed explosions, when none came, he lifted his head up from the cover of his wings and used his tail to push the fallen doors off him; it fell to the ground with two loud slams, shattered glass clinking. Pulling his wings back, he shifted off the prostrate forms of Sherlock and Molly, moving a few steps away to scatter the glass fragments and dust from his body with shakes of his head and flaps of his wings.

 _Alright?_  John asked when the detective pushed himself off the ground while Molly slowly climbed to her feet, visibly shaken. He neared the pathologist and made a rumbling croon in question.

“I’m okay, thank you, John,” Molly gave a shaky smile, and arranged her clothing, her voice taking a note higher as she stared at the blackened morgue, “Did-did the corpse explode? But there were no explosives inside the body, I could’ve seen it.  _How?!_ ”

Sherlock huffed, shaking his coat to dispel the light brush of dust, “Conduct yourself, Molly. It’s unbecoming.”

The detective’s usual biting words seemed to reflect an image of normalcy in this irrational situation and the female pathologist calmed marginally, wringing her hands as she looked down the hallway which has started to crowd with curious onlookers.

“John,” Sherlock said, eyeing the commotion starting to form at the sight of an imposing golden dragon in a hospital, “Glamour up.”

Without another word, John stepped towards the detective, skulking behind Sherlock’s back, spiked tail trailing after him, and when he stepped out from the other side, he is combing his hair back with a hand, his scaled tail curving round the detective’s feet before disappearing behind his back.

“What now? We have a corpse that exploded. The media will be swarming all over this and the police will be here soon. Do we want to be present when that happens?” John sniffed the air, something flashed through his mind and he took another breath, isolating the charred smell of human remains, and over the top note of astringent antiseptic, a distinct scent of cologne, pungent with its abnormality to its sterile surroundings, which specific brand he wasn’t sure, but he knew it is expensive.

He turned his head towards the end of the crowding hallway of doctors and nurses. No medical practitioner would wear cologne or perfume which could possibly trigger a patient’s asthma attack or chemical sensitivities. Unlikely to be a visitor of a patient in this hospital since no visitor would come all the way down to the labs. Probable but highly unlikely, and there is a waiting room for that. So…all that remains is…

“We’ve got unsavoury company, Sherlock.” John said, stepping in front of the detective and shielding the two humans, “I think it’s our bomber here to witness the damage done.”

Sherlock looked down the hallways, analyzing, and then glanced at his phone, “Lestrade is on his way and said not to engage with anyone. He typed that twice, in capitals.”

“That must be important. We have a head start,” John smiled, digging out a pair of disposable gloves from his pockets and tugging it on, he stepped into the morgue, “and information Lestrade doesn’t have.”

“Molly, stop those security men heading our way, they’re going to disturb the scene.” Sherlock said and stepped into the morgue.

“What? Where- Sherlock?” Molly looked around and smiled when the security men Sherlock mentioned neared, “Hi, sorry. I’ve got this handled. I’ve been told the police are on the way.”

* * *

In the morning before his alarm rang, John was already coming down for his morning tea, expecting to be first to the kettle but Sherlock was already up reading the morning papers. A glaring sign the detective was bothered about what happened yesterday.

“Hey.” John greeted, and the detective gestured to the pot of tea in response, “Anything interesting?”

“The incident at the morgue made the papers headlines.” Sherlock said, folding the papers in half and slapped it down on the tabletop.

John hummed as he read over the rim of his cup, “Wow, they certainly made it big.  _‘Rise From The Ashes: Man Combusted Post-Mortem’_ ”

“Combusted as in burst into flames, the cadaver  _exploded_ , John. You had to transform to shield us.” Sherlock flicked his gaze to the papers with a scowl on his face, “They modulated it, and made it into a sale worthy  _story._ ”

“You wouldn’t want to cause a panic,” John said, pulling the papers to him so he could read, “And the papers lie, there’re no whole truths. I take them with a pinch of salt.”

“Doctors.” Sherlock murmured.

“Pardon?”

“Doctors lie too.”

“Well…not exactly, and that’s debatable.” John cleared his throat, and took a sip of tea, “Anything from Lestrade?”

“Not yet.” Sherlock answered, checking his phone, “That glow yesterday, there’s something about it that vexes me.”

John took a sip of tea, “Well, that was what I was trying to talk to you about yesterday, but didn’t have time, seeing we w-”

“What’s your point, John?” Sherlock interrupted.

John lowered his gaze to the article marking the front page of the paper, “I know that… _signature._ ”

Sherlock furrowed his brows.

“I’ve seen that glow before, long before I went to war.” John swallowed, “An incident I came upon by a stroke of bad luck.”

“Go on.”

“It was an aura of a magic user, like you. Just that he has gone wrong.” John thumbed the edge of the papers, “Your light is opalescent, but the light I saw from him was dark, shimmery. Just like the hue we saw yesterday before the corpse exploded.”

“He?” Sherlock inflected.

“Yes, a male, definitely.”

“Describe him.”

“He would be older now, maybe around thirtyish? Not sure. High social class person from his dressing, and speech patterns, he didn’t seem bothered to me that he was discovered. Most people of the arcane would cherish anonymity but he seems to crave the attention. I couldn’t see his face since he was wearing a face mask, but he had dark eyes, maybe it’s because of the effect of his magic. He was using magic in broad daylight, and not the good kind. I spotted them in a suburban area, in front of a church; no one was around at that time. I was airborne, and saw him threatening a fellow user who’s slightly older than him.” John stopped for breath and took a sip of tea, then continued when Sherlock made a ‘and then?’ hand gesture, “What’s special is that his spells were advanced for a person at his age. There was so much hatred his spells it turned his magic evil, and what scares me was that he _really_ wanted to inflict as much pain as it was possible, and he relished the agony of his victim with a smile on his face. I surmise he must be stronger now. We have to be careful, Sherlock.  _You_ , have to be careful.”

“There’s nothing to worry about.” Sherlock hummed, and then his phone gave a shrill ring.

John sipped his tea to calm down as the detective took the call, speaking tersely into the receiver.

“Lestrade has summoned us. Coming?” Sherlock got up from his chair and donned his suit jacket.

“Of course. Let me get my coat.”

* * *

“What have you found?” Sherlock asked a familiar patron at the office’s shared coffee machine, John remained silent as he surveyed the floor.

“Oh, a very good morning to you too,” Lestrade remarked sarcastically as he stirred his coffee with a plastic stirrer, “Wonderful day outside isn’t it?”

John smiled behind the detective.

Sherlock made a ‘you’re boring me’ expression, and then frowned, leaning forward slightly to sniff subtly at the air.

Lestrade smiled and took a sip of his coffee, then started to lead them through the office, “You guys always get the weirdest crimes or give me the weirdest crimes.”

“Get straight to the point.” Sherlock said, eyeing the employees on the level.

“Ah, you always make my day a little better,” Lestrade took a sip of his coffee as he pushed a roller chair out of the way, “What would I do without you?”

“Your wife is still sleeping with her personal trainer. You had a row recently with her, presumably yesterday,” Sherlock remarked, eyes scanning the figure in front of him, “You’re living separately right now. She’s staying in the house, you in a hotel. I can tell from your clothes, and the soap you used this morning most likely provided by the hotel free of charge. A very distinct minty scent, only high end hotel chains provide that brand of toiletries, most specifically-”

“ _Okay,_  that’s my cue,” Lestrade interrupted, and got straight down to business, “Bomb squad technicians have been over the scene but no bomb fragments were found. Not even traces of whatever usual chemicals. I don’t know how the hell it happened, but it’s a good thing none of the hospital foundations were severely damaged,” Lestrade said as he led the duo into his office, “And before you two flew off yesterday, you mentioned to me that you know something about this?”

John nodded, “The signature from the bomb and how it went off.”

“I assume you didn’t want to mention any of it in front of my men because of whatever reasons, so you wanna tell me about it now?”

“Soon,” John reassured, “There’s more to it than it seems, something magical. It’s going to take some time to explain, and I don’t think we have the time, so you have to trust us for now.”

Lestrade groaned, “What is it now? First, faeries, I’m still trying to get my mind around it mind you, cause’ it’s fucking faeries, and then you tell me Sherlock being a what?”

“A warlock, he comes from a lineage.” John said and Sherlock rolled his eyes at the conversation.

“Oh, now I remember, and he owns a tome, which is archaic as hell, and possesses some magical abilities, yes. I remembered that,  _vividly_ ,” Lestrade rubbed his forehead absently, “Because someone sent a cup  _flying_  my way.”

“You were supposed to dodge it.” Sherlock retorted, “It proves to show that your reflexes are indeed slower than your mind.”

“ _God_ , I need a drink.” Lestrade sighed, “Something  _stronger_ than coffee.”

John laughed, “In due time, Greg.”

“Let’s all skip to the part where you found something,” Sherlock quipped impatiently, “You obviously did, or you wouldn’t call us down here.”

“Alright, alright, I’m getting to it,” Lestrade shifted the papers on his desk searching for something, “The morgue was mostly destroyed by the blast, but the body drawers were still miraculously intact. We searched inside and in one of the drawers we found this.”

Sherlock accepted the small parcel Lestrade picked from his desk, “You haven’t opened it.”

Lestrade crossed his arms, “It’s addressed to you.”

Sherlock tilted the parcel and examined the writing on a tag under a lamp, then pulled the golden ribbon loose and lifted the lid; pursing his lips he emptied the box of a photograph and an inflorescence of five small white flowers.

“What the hell are we supposed to make of that?” Lestrade exclaimed.

“It’s a sign.” Sherlock whispered.

“Sign?” John echoed.

“These are Conium maculatum, also known as poison hemlock, all plant parts are poisonous. They’re telling us it’s going to happen again…I’ve seen this place before.” Sherlock flapped the photograph as he stalked out of the office, mind already whirling with the possibilities.

“Hang on, what’s going to happen again?” John asked as he followed behind.

“Someone’s going to die.” Sherlock said as he turned a corner and out the office.

* * *

At the place of the photograph, which is somewhere in St. James’s Park, through a hidden narrow path between the carefully tended flowerbeds, into the thick shaded thicket behind, a cadaver awaited them in the undergrowth with a pair of trainers placed in a vacuumed transparent bag.

“How the hell did you know it’s this place?” Lestrade asked as Sherlock crouched to examine the corpse.

“You know my methods.” Sherlock answered, moving up and down the length of the laid out cadaver, “Recently deceased, with minimal wind, no rainfall over the last few days, it has been arranged into position out here… about a day ago.”

John is hovering around the detective when a rustle caught his attention; he turned just as a tremulous voice called out to them.

“Hello! I’ve been told to find Sherlock Holmes! She says I can find him here!” All three looked up and towards the young female standing under the sun at the edge of the flowerbed, “I’ve got this call out of the blue…she says she needs to speak to Sherlock Holmes urgently, and that I would get paid doing that.”

“Don’t come in here!” John shouted then turned to the detective, “Sherlock, will you…”

The detective strode past him and down the narrow path, grabbing the phone from the stunned starry-eyed female.

“Greg?” John inquired towards the D.I, “en route?”

The D.I nodded in affirmation, “Units are already on the way. Is this like the one that exploded?”

John eyed the dressed cadaver laid out on the ground; the hue overlaying the corpse is currently transparent, dormant.

“Yeah...you wouldn’t want anyone around it. We have to move it quick, and away from civilisation.”

Lestrade groaned, “God, I’m calling the bomb squads to remove a cadaver.”

“If it blows up, they’ll believe.”

“Can’t you guys do something about it?” Lestrade stuffed his hands in his coat pockets, “Remove whatever it is?”

“Not sure what it is and it may react unexpectedly.” John explained, taking note for any changes in the hue, “Magic is infinitely wily. You’re not seeing anything else other than it’s a corpse?”

In a distance, the sound of sirens got nearer.

“I’m not sure anyone sees what the both of you see.” Lestrade replied, his phone pinged and he glanced at it, “Squads here, let’s move.”

“We’ve got 12 hours to solve this. Lestrade, the girl is waiting outside for you to take her particulars.” Sherlock said as he grabbed the bag of trainers, “Come on, John.”

John looked at Lestrade.

“Go on, I’ll handle this.” Lestrade waved them away, and then answered his phone, stepping out of the undergrowth.

On the way out of the park they met the squads decked out in protective gear heading towards the direction where they came, several police cars were just pulling up at the curb when they got into the cab.

* * *

“Are the police trying to trace the call?” John asked as he paced the length of the laboratory table.

“Hm?”

“The phone call for you in the park,” John stated, “From the girl’s phone.”

“The girl is innocent, everything about her checks out.” Sherlock replied, not looking up from the microscope, “And the bomber is too smart for that.”

“She mentioned being paid.”

“It’s obvious it’s a ruse to get her to pass the message.” Sherlock glanced at the monitor and then resumed his task of identifying the pollen under the microscope.

The computer gave a beep just as the door swung open.

“Any luck?” Molly inquired cheerfully as she entered the lab.

“Oh yes!” Sherlock glanced at the monitor showing a match to his search.

The door swung open again, “Oh, sorry. I didn’t…”

“Jim!  _Hi!_  Come in, come in!” Molly smiled, surprised.

Sherlock glanced towards the door and deemed the newly arrived man no significance.

“Jim, this is Sherlock Holmes.” Molly introduced to the seated detective then gestured to the standing blond man, “And John Watson.”

“Hi.” Jim glanced at John, his grin blossoming as he neared the seated detective, “So you’re Sherlock Holmes. Molly told me all about you. You on one of your cases?”

John pinched his lips and furrowed his brows. Something he can’t quite place about this dark haired man. His phone vibrated and he pulled it out of his pockets, reading the message.

_‘Cadaver exploded upon arrival to detonation site. Couldn’t just be a timely coincidence or plain luck, same MO. Bomb squads are convinced and informed to stay alert for more calls. Various morgues have reported multiple corpses stolen. Involve Mycroft? Reply after reading this. –GL’_

Tapping the screen of his phone, he kept an eye on Jim as the man bounced around Sherlock.

_‘Noted. I’ll text you if any. I’ll get Sherlock’s viewpoint first. Get back to you soon. –JW’_

* * *

“Carl Powers, John.” Sherlock said while they were in the back of a cab on route home from Bart’s.

John turned away from the windows, “Sorry, who?”

“Carl Powers, it’s where I began. 1989, kid, champion swimmer, came up from Brighton for a school’s sports tournament, drowned in the pool, tragic accident. Left all his clothes in the locker, but there was no sign of his shoes, until now.”

John hummed letting the detective bounce ideas off, his phone pinged and he pulled it out of his pockets.

_‘Received your message, no action is currently required on my part. Should you require any resources or involvement contact me again. –MH’_

Tapping the screen, John typed out a reply to Lestrade.

_‘Mycroft apprised of situation. Request if require help. –JW’_

A reply came a minute later.

_‘Will do. –GL’_

* * *

“ _Poison_ , Clostridium Botulinum. It’s one of the deadliest poisons on the planet!” Sherlock slammed his hands down on the table; the faeries squeaked, scurrying out of the door.

“So, he was poisoned, and then murdered.”

“The boy suffered from eczema, it would be the easiest thing in the world to introduce the poison into his medication. Two hours later, he comes to London; the poison takes effect, paralyses the muscles and he drowns.”

“How come the autopsy didn’t pick that up?”

“It’s virtually undetectable, and nobody was looking for it.” Sherlock said as he typed rapidly on a laptop, “There are still tiny traces of it in the trainers from where he put the cream on his feet. That’s why they had to go.”

“So how do we let the bomber know?”

“Get his attention…stop the clock.”

“The killer kept the shoes all these years.” John trailed off, staring at the trainers pulled apart in their kitchen.

“Yes.” Sherlock whispered, nodding, “Meaning…”

“He’s our bomber.” John finished.

On cue, their landline rang.

* * *

“Two men broke into her house, forced her at gunpoint to the car park and decked her out with enough explosives to take down a house, if you haven’t solved the case.” Lestrade slid a black pager across his desk, “Had to read out of this pager.”

“If she had deviated from a word, the snipers would set her off.” Sherlock trailed off, “Oh…elegant.”

“Elegant?” John inflected.

“I’m not the only one in the world who gets _bored_.” Sherlock said.

A knock on the door came and they all turned to face an officer, “A parcel for Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock inspected the same handwriting on the tag and pulled the ribbon loose, “Four this time.” Sherlock said as he dropped the belladonna flowers on the desk, and inspected a photograph of a car, “First test passed, it would seem. Here’s the second. It’s abandoned, wouldn’t you say?”

“I’ll see if it’s been reported.” Lestrade said, picking up the phone.

“Freak, it’s for you.” Sally jested as she held out a phone at the door.

John turned and stared, his eyes turning chatoyant for a moment, he would have changed if Sherlock hadn’t glided past him to accept the phone. With his acute hearing, he heard the detective speak into the receiver.

“Hello.”

“It’s okay…that you’ve gone to the police.” A male voice shook over the phone.

“Who is this? Is this you again?”

“But don’t rely on them. Clever you…guessing about Carl Powers. I never liked him. Carl laughed at me…so  _I stopped_  him laughing.”

“You’ve stolen another voice, I presume.” Sherlock turned and John came out of the D.I’s office.

“This is about  _you and me_.”

“Who are you? What’s that noise?”

“It’s the sounds of life, Sherlock. But don’t  _worry_ …I can soon  _fix_  that…You solved my last puzzle in 9 hours…This time you have 8.” Sherlock lowered the phone and looked at John.

“Found it!” Lestrade exclaimed in the office.

* * *

“Where now?” John asked as he followed Sherlock up the slope, avoiding the bomb squads hefting another cadaver into an armoured truck.

“Janus Cars. Just found this in the glove compartment.” Sherlock handed the name card to the dragon.

* * *

“Hello.” Sherlock said, holding onto a lab technician’s phone.

“The clue’s in the name – Janus Cars...”

“Why would you be giving me a clue?”

“Why does anyone do  _anything?_  Because I’m bored…We were  _made_  for each other, Sherlock.”

“Then talk to me in your own voice.” Sherlock remarked.

“Patience.”

* * *

> **_‘Congratulations to Ian Monkfort on his relocation to Colombia.’_ **

The second the post was out, the shrill sound of a phone call rang. A click of the answering button and the shaky voice of a sobbing male came through the speakers.

“He says…you can come and fetch me. Help.  _Help me,_   _please!_ ”

* * *

“Feeling better?” Sherlock asked as he eyed the dragon emptying the plate before him rapidly.

“Mm.” John hummed as he stuffed another forkful of food into his mouth, “We hardly stopped for breath since this thing started.”

Sherlock tapped his fingers on the table, eyes roaming the small eatery they were in.

“Has it occurred to you-”

“Probably.” Sherlock interjected.

“No, has it occurred to you that the bomber’s playing a game with you? The parcels, the dead kid’s shoes, it’s all meant for you.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Reminds me of something though,” John chewed on a bit of toast, “probably not.”

“What?”

“It feels like a  _courtship_ , Sherlock.” John said, lowering his voice, “You know  _normally_  when you want to gain the affections of another, you buy them things, gift them with presents or anything of interest to their partner.”

Sherlock scoffed offended yet amused, “You think I’m being wooed?”

John let out a chuckle in an airy huff, “With morbid things, like strapping people up in Semtex vests with the intention of blowing them up, and leaving you messages by using another person’s voice, not to forget the explosive cadavers, and the poisonous flowers!”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Stop being dramatic.”

“I’m just considering the possibility in another way.” John shrugged.

“Hi, which one of you is Sherlock Holmes?” A man asked as he came up to their table with a parcel in hand, “I was told to give this to him.”

“Thank you.” John smiled placidly as Sherlock grabbed the parcel without a word.

And they are back onto the case.

* * *

Sherlock is watching crap telly, still draped in his coat, hunched in his chair. The faeries floated into 221B looking so pleased with themselves, each carrying a Hershey’s Kisses in their arms; a token of gratitude from Mrs. H for helping her tend to her garden in the afternoon.

“You remember the thing I said about courtship?” John tapped the keys of his laptop, typing out a case they had closed not long ago. They were down to the last parcel, the last phone call, and John is wishing this to be over soon. Countdowns, he hates them.

“Hmm?”

“I was right.” John tapped a few more keys, “This is like a blockbuster movie, explosions, and hostages-”

“Shut up, John.” Sherlock growled.

John chuckled and closed his laptop.

“Where are you going?" Sherlock turned his head slightly.

“First you want me to shut up, and now you’re asking me where I’m going.” John laughed as he pushed out his chair, “I’m going to the shops since we’re out of milk, and beans. Sure I can’t change your mind on coming along?”

“Nope,” Sherlock smirked, “I’m very content with watching the telly.”

“Alright” John sighed, then patted his jeans for his wallet, “I’m off. Might be late, so don’t wait up.”

“Mm.”

The moment the door slammed downstairs, Sherlock took out his laptop.

> **_‘Found. The unopenable spell book. Please collect. The Pool. Midnight.’_ **

* * *

“I’ve brought you a little getting-to-know you present…that’s what it’s all been for, isn’t it? All your little puzzles, making me  _dance._  ” Sherlock began, making a turn around, looking for cameras, “All to distract me from  _this._ ”

He was peering up at the darken spectator seats for any signs of life when a reverberating boom sounded behind him. He spun around to face a massive hole blown through the walls where a door should be, to see some criminal mastermind making a dramatic entrance, or he expected to.

But, out stepped John.

In his draconic form, golden and even larger than he has ever seen, with the titanium collar he gifted clasped round the golden dragon’s neck and the healed over wound on its left wing.

It was John.

And in the dragon’s eyes, there was not a shred of recognition.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate myself sometimes.  
> I tried changing the plot, but then after awhile I realized I'm following the show. I tried, guys. I really did. It must be the effect of rewatching the episodes too many times; the idea ingrained in my mind. 
> 
> Give me a key-smash of your thoughts/feelings! 
> 
> Also, for the ending (Not saying it’s soon… _maybe_ …but I would like to plan ahead). **Would you prefer a happy, everything is well, or a sad, antsy, I-think-someone-will-die chapter?**
> 
> Or would you like me to surprise you? Like Sherlock with a drawn on moustache and a bottle of wine?  
> (I'm leaning towards the sad, antsy ending currently. But by all means, share your thoughts with me.)


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm kinda losing my momentum over this.  
> RL problems is invading my thoughts so I'm not exactly all here at the moment.  
> This is not a short one though.
> 
> I've enjoyed typing this chapter, and I hope you'll enjoy reading it too.
> 
> Unbeta-ed.

A rumble started deep in the dragon’s throat as a fume of grey escaped its parted jaws, trailing to his feet in creeping heated wisps. In the air, he detected an undeniable sharp scent of metallic he was so used to smelling at typical murder scenes.

Sherlock took a step forward and the dragon bared its teeth; rows of razor sharp pointed teeth, coated with a viscous film of crimson.

_Blood._

“ _John?_ ”

The steady rumble morphed into a thundering snarl, a feral, menacing noise Sherlock has never ever heard John make before, not to him, not to anyone.

Sherlock stood still as the fire-breathing beast evaluated him for threat, nictitating membrane drawing across its eyes as it blinked; pupils dilated, unseeing. The golden dragon looked so savage, so lethal in its solitary ferocity. The leathery hard spines on the back of its head were fully raised in hostility curving up like horns on its head, and it stalked forward slowly, head stooping down inclined to the side; a splatter of blood marring its scaled cheek in a spray of red.  

When it reared back up again, Sherlock saw its sensitive ears were secured, the back of its throat flared with the glow of a fire, a stream of smoke trailing out its jaws, filling his nostrils with the waft of burning ember, and the strong smell of chlorine.

It was quite an unnerving sight. Sherlock was so used to seeing John curl up like an oversized beast in front of the fireplace, engaging in a heated yet merry debate with him. At times when John was in his miniature form, he would loop himself around his nape like a too warm scarf, and they would head out to solve crimes, slipping into a familiar camaraderie Sherlock would find nowhere else. 

John is so…tamed, so  _human_  that he has overlooked John’s wild draconic side. A survival orientated being with a impenetrable fireproof hide, powered with inhumane strength and flesh shredding teeth and claws, possibly with no higher brain activity.

If Mycroft were to see John in this state, he would issue a Red Alert to his agents; to kill on sight.

Attention fixed on the golden beast; Sherlock remained still and raised his voice a tone higher, “Who are you?”

Baring its teeth, the golden dragon hissed and fell to a low crouch, the usually flat dorsal plates protruding from its back in a row of sharp ridges. The dragon looked defensive and offensive at the same time as though it's fighting with itself, the mixed signals making him confused of how to act, but that was quickly corrected with a raucous rumble, a small burst of flames licking out of its parted jaws. Sherlock almost assumed the dragon would attack, but instead to his concealed relief, lowered its head in acquiescence, the flames dying out to grey wisps, and instincts tells him, it’s not because of him.

The dragon moved a few steps to the right, claws clicking against the tiles, and shifted to a low crouch blocking his way forward, extensive wings slightly outstretched, pressing against the wall of the swimming complex in a bended angle.

A door clanged open at the far end of the swimming complex, and a modulated voice greeted, “Good evening, this is such a turn up,  _isn’t it_ , Sherlock?”

Sherlock shifted his footing as a dark suited man approached leisurely, hands clasped behind his back.

“Is that a British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket, or are you just  _pleased_ to see me?”

“Both.” Sherlock slipped his hand towards his pocket and gripped, pulling the gun out and cocking it at the approaching man.

The golden dragon rumbled a low gnar, unfocused blue eyes fixed on the firearm.

“Jim Moriarty.  _Hi._ ” The man ambled over, relaxed, not at all bothered at the loaded gun pointed in his direction, “ _Jim, f_ _rom the hospital?_ Oh, did I make such a fleeting impression? But then again…I suppose that was  _rather the point._ ”

Sherlock glanced at the crouching golden dragon.

“Oh, don’t be silly, he can’t see you, can’t even perceive you, for all he knows you’re a threat.” Moriarty slipped his hands into his trousers pockets, ambling forward slowly, “He’s _surprisingly_  hard to gain control over, but I love a challenge every now and then. What you’re seeing now is what a dragon ought to be, a wild, lethal thing, not cloaked in a glamour walking around wearing a human image, and most certainly not collared and domesticated, though I must say it has a good colour, and excellent craftsmanship.”

“If you'd like, I could give you a referral.” Sherlock sniped and Moriarty laughed; a honeyed, practiced sound made to come off as amused. The man’s lips were parted in a grin, but his eyes were not smiling at all.

“Fire is power. It’s mythical, it destroys and it creates. Dragons are fire with a mind of its own. And you have a dragon by your side much less have one _this_   _fascinating_. Do you know why its eyes are this particular shade of  _blue?_  I’m sure you thought about it before.”

Sherlock pursed his lips, his features betraying no emotions. Moriarty chuckled.

“You’ve got no idea? The great Sherlock Holmes doesn’t know  _why!_ ” Moriarty twirled around, throwing his arms open in the air, laughing, “This just can’t get any better!”

Sherlock tightened his grip on the gun, his eyes flared bright with contained anger.

Moriarty grinned, “ ** _Up._** ”

The crouching dragon straightened and then flapped its wings, ascending up into flight, hovering over the huge body of water, its spiked tail partially dipping into the pool, extensive wings beating the air with soft swishes.

Sherlock scanned the golden dragon for a moment, then turned his attention back to the consulting criminal before him, face devoid of expression yet his eyes flashed opalescent for a moment betraying him entirely.

A measured, shrewd smile curled at Moriarty's lips, “I’ve given you a glimpse, Sherlock, just a  _teensy_  glimpse of what I’ve got going out there in the big bad world. I’m a specialist, you see.  _Like you._ ”

A light shimmer glinted in Moriarty’s dark, almost black eyes and the golden dragon descended, landing on the tiles, claws clicking the ground as it stalked a few steps forward to a rest behind the dark suited man, sweeping its spiked tail around to rest at its feet, eyes blank.

Sherlock kept the gun steady, but the other man neared without hesitation, “Consulting criminal…”

Moriarty smirked and his eyes lit up with something unnameable, something he couldn’t quite identify, “No one ever gets to me, and no one ever  _will._ ”

“I did.” Sherlock released the safety.

“You’d come the closest. Now you’re in my  _way._ ” Moriarty drawled and the dragon rumbled; the scent of fire wafting through the air.

“Thank you.”

“I didn’t mean it as a compliment.”

“Yes, you did.”

“Yeah, okay _, I did._ ” Moriarty shrugged and his voice pitched to a sing-song tone as he stalked nearer, “But the flirting is over, Sherlock, daddy has had enough  _now…_ I’ve shown you what I can do…I cut loose all those people, those little problems, even lost a  _very_  competent man to that dragon right there, just so you’ll come out and play. I’m more than a _little_ unhappy about the last one. So take this as a friendly warning…my dear, _back off._  Although I’ve loved this, this little game of ours…did you like the little presents I’ve sent? The exploding corpses, the flowers…”

“People have died.” Sherlock stated placidly, but his heart thudded in his ribcage. _  
_

“THAT’S WHAT PEOPLE  _DO!_ ” Moriarty bellowed, his voice reverberating throughout the empty swimming complex, magic flaring at his fingertips.

“I will stop you.”

“No, you  _won’t_.” Moriarty shook his head and the magic evident in his eyes intensified to a glow; dark and dead.

Sherlock turned his gaze to the golden dragon, the blank look on the dragon's features troubling him more than he would admit, “What did you do.”

Moriarty beckoned the golden dragon, and Sherlock watch John skulk a few steps forward, spiked tail trailing behind, to come to a rest beside the man.

“Something intriguing,” Moriarty placed a hand on the golden beast’s collared neck and crooned, “ ** _blaze._** ”

Instantly, the golden dragon opened its jaws and spat a long trail of fire at the feet of the detective, evaporating the little puddles on the ground, scorching the tiles black, filling the air with a heavy musk of charred matter.

Sherlock leapt a few steps back just in time, but white hot heat still seared at his ankles and calves, his skin prickled and the pain made his mind clear. Lowering his gun, he murmured, “ ** _enhanced shield._** ”

At once, an arcane rune formed before him in a protective screen, glowing sigils flaring red at the existing threats.

The crouching golden dragon snarled and a trail of grey smoke drifted from its parted jaws, swirling up and then dying to wisps, the beginnings of a fire glowing amber at the back of its throat.

Moriarty chuckled gleefully, dark eyes maniacal, “ _Now_ we’re talking.” The man took a step away from the dragon and initiated his own protective shield with a low murmur of a spell word, then continued, “We’re so alike, Sherlock.”

“I don’t see any resemblance.” Sherlock retorted, hitting the gun against the side of his thigh.

“Sides of a coin,” Moriarty smiled as he mused, “We can do so much together.”

“You’re asking me to work with you.”

Moriarty furrowed his brows as if the bare idea of it confuses him, “ _What?_  No, not work  _with_  me. Let’s just say, a beneficial agreement of sorts.”

“No.” Sherlock interjected, the protective shield before him glowed, rotating slowly.

Moriarty wasn’t offended by the detective’s quick refusal, instead he smiled, amused, “I have yet to present my proposal.”

“There’s no need to.” Sherlock said, his eyes flitting towards the golden dragon for a moment then returned to the consulting criminal’s face, “I’m not interested.”

“Even it includes sparing John’s life?” Moriarty asked icily, yet his dark eyes filtered through a flash of pensiveness before it was quickly shuttered away.

Sherlock remained silent, unwavering.

Moriarty shrugged his shoulders, but his expression was grim, “These recent months you have on more than one occasion caused a _terrible_ inconvenience to me."

Sherlock smiled, "Thank you."

Moriarty smirked, then tilted his head to the side, his mischievous smile dying at his lips, "Do you know what happens if you don’t leave me alone, Sherlock, to you?”

“Let me guess, I’ll get killed.”

Moriarty gasped, “ _Kill you?_  No, don’t be obvious,” He slipped his hands into his pockets and straightened, a flicker of amber flaring in his apathetic eyes, “If you don’t stop prying, there’s no guarantee what I’ll do.”

Sherlock simply huffed at the mild threat.

Moriarty gave a disarming smile, eyes glinting, “Consider yourself warned.”

Sherlock slipped his hand into his suit and pulled out a book, “Take it.”

“Oh,” Moriarty disengaged his own protective shield and strolled forwards, standing before the arcane shield of the detective, waiting, but the look on his face clearly said he could easily disable his shields if he wished.

Sherlock blinked and the rune dissipated, Moriarty grinned and took the spell book from his hands.

“The  _forbidden_  spells.” Moriarty hummed and released the control he had over the golden dragon, turning the book over and inspected the book spine.

The dragon blinked once, and then shook its head, the usual light in its eyes returning.

John met Sherlock’s eyes for a second before he struggled against the pressure coming onto his mind, he growled, shaking his head, and trashed his wings.

“John?” Sherlock voiced as he golden dragon reared back, turning away from him, shrieking painfully.

“ _Boring_ ,” Moriarty chimed, flinging the book onto the floor and pulled at the threads of control over the dragon tighter, yanking it back, his magic surged and his mind rang with a draconic howl, “I already have this volume _._ ”

The golden beast struggling behind the consulting criminal let out a screech and then stilled, collapsing heavily onto the tiles with a rumble. When the dragon opened its eyes again, the same unfocused light reflected in its blue orbs.

“What if I were to shoot you now?” Sherlock asked as he cocked the loaded firearm at Moriarty’s forehead.

“Then you could cherish the look of surprise on my face. But then of course, you wouldn’t be able to cherish it for very long. Well, I better be off, it's so nice to have a proper chat." The consulting criminal smiled, and ambled towards the door, "Goodbye, _for now, Sherlock Holmes._ ”

“Catch you…later.” Sherlock trailed as he followed the dark haired man with his gun aimed.

“No, you  _won’t!_ ” The door slammed shut behind the man and footsteps steadily faded away.

The golden beast not far away from him blinked and shook its head, shifting its leathery wings as it climbed unsteadily onto its feet, coughing short burst of flames that sparked and burned.

“John.” Sherlock said, and the dragon turned to face him, eyes wide and searching, almost frenziedly. The silence that persisted in his mind at the start eased out to a dull tremor, and then a familiar panicked voice rang.

 _Sherlock! Are you alright_? _Blood, there’s blood in my mouth._ John asked as he swept his tail behind him, his breaths coming out in puffs of smoke, heart thudding in his chest.  _Oh god. Did I do anything to you?_   _I don’t-_

Sherlock paced the ground, agitated, “You killed one of Moriarty’s men. I’m fine.”

That seems to spur the dragon into action, with a biting snap of its jaws, John leapt forward.  _Let’s get out of here. The faster we’re airborne the better._

John flapped his wings in readiness to take flight. Sherlock picked the spell book off the ground, slipping it into his jacket.  _Hurry!_ The dragon shouted in his mind and cornered him out of the doors.

* * *

Sherlock slouched in his armchair as he stared at the yellow smiley face he had spray painted on the fleur de lys motif wallpaper. It has been a month since the swimming pool incident, everything went well. And by well, everything was boring, and unbearably dull.

He has been alone in the flat for most of the day since John left for work in the late morning saying he can’t take any more day offs and that he needed the sense of normalcy to get over their recent irrational encounters. Being chased down an enchanted street of an uncharted place by a group of enraged dwarfs, and barely avoiding the wrath of a water sprite within the same week.

Both cases were unlisted on John’s blog, but Sherlock could remember them clear as day. 

The first event was a case from an earth dragon, ranking a 2 on the degree of worth solving. It was a simple run of the mill kind of case involving little mystery; a jewel, a grave and an owner. They were to go in as an intermediary to resolve a misunderstanding. He usually wouldn’t be bothered leaving the flat for anything less than a 7, much less to resolve a misunderstanding for something he had no part in, but John couldn’t _possibly_ refuse his kin plea for help, not before reminding him that having an earth dragon on their side would greatly aid them in the future. So far as to hint to him that the healing berries he was so curious about could be negotiated as payment, hence he accepted the case grudgingly with a fair deal of concealed excitement.

Half of the reason being, he wanted to observe and profile the earth dragon for the ratio of him coming in contact with other dragons in London is limited, the other half was entirely because of the berries John once told him about, the additional reason was because he was bored. And there is nothing more dreadful being bored than a level 2 case.

They started by locating the entrance that would lead them to their destined location, which was between 2 trees in a shady spot in Regent’s Park; an entrance that appears at various different places that only magical beings could detect and find. John didn’t exactly explain in detail on the spot, and just pulled him through, a shiver of ill sensation later they found themselves in a busy street in another sphere of entity. It was another kind of London, crowded, noisy and bustling with activity, only that its tenants were of the supernatural kind.

The cobbled street they stood in was lightly shaded by the evergreen trees lining the lane, entwined with crimson red flowers, creating a leafy, flowery arch high above the stores and shops selling all sorts of bizarre items, and all things magical. It was a picturesque street out of a fantasy novel and he would have enjoyed a day exploring the mesmerizing yet unknown street, collecting physical samples and recording observations, but he didn’t have the pleasure to undertake such an activity.

John led them through the foreign street, navigating through crowds of spectacular creatures he has never seen before moving about their day, from faeries, dragons to the occasional celestial beings that floated around instead of walking. The golden dragon clarified that they were something like heaven officials, as the public usually dub as bookkeepers of heaven, they were alike angels just that they needn’t rely on wings to fly.

He hummed in acknowledgement as John explained and answered his queries while he surveyed the actuality of the place and objects surrounding them, the vast number of things he tried to remember and the fair number of deductions he came up with overwhelming him with a alarming sense of ineptitude. Yet he didn’t have time to dwell on that as John ushered him forward, following the signs on the walls and guided them down a less crowded alley that sells mainly jewellery and weaponry. From there they didn’t need a sign to identify the dwarfs, simply because the flamboyant store was enough to draw anyone’s attention.

The tough, sturdy beings were tending to a rather large store marketing polished swords, distinctive odd coins and gems that sparkled and glittered, from what he had observed, it was a rather lucrative business since the owners were well dressed and neatly groomed. Their arrival was welcomed and the stoutish beings were cooperative up till the mention of the earth dragon. It was then, the company of dwarfs flew into a rage, and picked up their axes, and polished swords, chasing John and him down the streets without giving either of them a chance to explain.

When they were running possibly for their lives, John dropped the glamour mid sprint and hoisted him by his coat up into the air, and dropped him onto a slanted shop roof. Threats were then flung on both sides, words were exchanged, and the situation was cleared.

The earth dragon was no doubt a prat, he knew the moment the dragon stepped into 221B, but the earth dragon was not a liar, in fact a little too honest. The jewel in question belonged to a recently deceased dwarf, dug out of a grave and sold through multiple anonymous persons, and was finally sold into the unlucky hands of an earth dragon who in turn decided to pawn it off to the dwarfs who recognized the make of the jewel.

John and he spent most of the day running around, gathering information, connecting the links, and looking for their grave robber, following a trail of grave disturbances to a local cemetery where they finally caught the offender sifting through a shallow grave for gems. John recognized the species of the creature and pointed out to him that he can read up on them in one of his books he brought over from his grandmother’s library.

It was a short goblin like creature with a green mark shaped like a leaf marring its pasty skin in between twin short horns protruding from its forehead, it looked frail and feeble with its drained features and large eyes, peering at them from the pit it dug. It was lean but its back was severely hunched hence its arms dangled, wide palms touching the ground, fingers and nails caked with mud and dirt.

There was no use interrogating the creature since it spoke in jumbled sentences, small sharp teeth clicking at each syllable, making it hard to understand its speech. While it was adept at digging into the hard ground, running was not one of its strong points, owing to its short legs which covered little ground, but it was proficient with defending itself with its poisonous spit. John had it pinned down with his draconic form, snarling threateningly while he with the assistance of a helpful resident fae called for the police, and it was not Scotland Yard that he raised.

The supernatural’s police: Elves.

They arrived quietly and quickly; tall, ethereal beings cloaked in midnight blue. The scene was swiftly processed and catalogued by a group of elves, and one of them took their statements, scribbling into a black notebook, nodding as they spoke. When they were asked for their contact information, the golden dragon took over, informing the officer that they were not residents of this realm, but in the other London, even so, the dragon provided their numbers and names. Several of the tall beings paused at the utterance of their names, turning around to stare at their faces, nodded, and then without another word, left together with the goblin cuffed and muzzled.

Afterwards, the earth dragon was contacted, and they were given a promise of assistance in the future as payment. John was more than okay with that. He was not.

The berries were all he cared about, but John said it wasn’t the right time for that yet, and emphasised there might be medicinal shops that sell the powdered form of the berries. Powdered or not, that was a fine substitute till he got hold of fresh ones, and he insisted they procure a bottle of the stuff before they return. Thus they spent the remaining of the day shopping in an enchanted street, buying the kind of products the normal kind of London won’t be able to provide, at the same time searching for a medicinal store that holds the powdered berries.

It was in the early evening when the crowds dwindled and slowed to an evening crowd. The nightlife started and the gradual rise of eateries and cafés transformed the bustling, noisy afternoon streets to a lull of muted conversations and laughter, all into a dissonant sound of utensils clinking together, scraping against porcelain with the occasional pleasant sharp touches of filled wine glasses. All kinds of creatures he has seen during the day were on their way through the streets carrying nicely wrapped packages of food or consuming dinner with friends at the nearby cafés, the aromatic spices and tantalizing herbs from the dinners wafting through the air, rousing a slight sudden crave for sustenance. 

Yet one thing bothered him, dominating over his other problems at hand.

Ever since the skies darkened, he noticed no one at any point of time looked up as the streets begin to light up golden and bright from the lamps hanging above the arches. Or so he thought were lamps for they moved, not staying in once place, thousands of little lights, wavering and swaying in the light breeze in a hypnotic way. He felt faint yet he couldn’t tear his gaze away, till a warm hand covered his eyes, taking the sight away with muted darkness, and a voice he knew so well calling out to him. When he blinked and focused, it was John, and the blond looked distraught and highly apologetic all at once, he could detect a faint glimmer of fright in those bright eyes.

‘I’m sorry, I should’ve warned you before night fell.’

He looked up above the leafy arches again and there above, the trail of light continued in their dance, but he was tugged back when the blond yanked at his front shirt collar hard enough to make him bend forward, his line of sight forced towards the cobbled street they were standing on.

‘Don’t look at them. Do not meet their gaze. Do not _ever_ meet their gaze, Sherlock.’ The blond warned grimly, when he struggled from the dragon’s grasp, John emphasised in a no joke tone, ‘If you were taken by them, I can _never_ get you back. _Not even me_. Don’t look at them directly. They are light sylphs, pay them no mind, and they shan't bother you.’

He made a mental note to look up on light sylphs when they get back to Baker Street, and for the rest of the evening, John wrapped himself around his nape in his miniature dragon form, snapping his jaws whenever someone got too close. The glow of a fire is always visible at the corner of his eye, the heat of it warming his cheek as the tail curled under his scarf wrapped itself snugly around the skin of his neck in a protective gesture.

He knew John was worried as the dragon kept speaking to him in his head, talking about everything they see, describing it, and answering all his questions, even the weird ones, just to make sure he was still paying attention and not drawn to the lights above. When he attempted to, the golden dragon thwacked him with his tail, and not in a nice way, because it actually hurt when John did it, and he would relent, keeping his eyes eye level only, telling the dragon ‘it’s all fine’ like John did once, when the dragon asked persistently if the whack actually hurt a lot.

John did not unwrap himself around him till they reached the medicine lanes which were lit with electrical lamps, the stores were fitted with awnings for shade and shelter although the evergreen trees still grew into an arch above them. With a flip, John jumped off his shoulders and onto the ground, and seconds later, the blond is standing next to him, combing down the fluff in his hair with his fingers.

They started down the apothecary and herbalist lane and were hit in the face with a redolence of woody, earthy herbs lingering in the air, the deeper they venture down the lane, the stronger the earthy scent wrapped around them. There are little crowds, and the street was practically empty, save for some of the store owners who sat on low stools outside their lush shops fronts, plucking medicinal leaves off stems, and laying out different herbs in flat woven baskets to dry.

He scanned the meagre crowd and spotted a few medical practitioners within picking up medicines, the words they speak he didn’t really understand, for the medicinal names were not the kind he is familiar with. John occasionally stepped into the shops to inquire about their purchase, and when the blond returned, he pointed down the street, and said there was only one store on the entire lane that sells them.

The traditional medicinal shop that they located to sell the powdered berries was set in an oriental Chinese medical hall, lit golden with lamps fixed on the walls. It was not empty of customers when they entered the threshold, a couple of elves at the far end of the store was conversing with a attendant, and whatever they required, the male turned around and pulled open one of the red drawers, and picked a handful of herbs, laying it out on brown wrapping paper adding to the small pile accumulating.

However, that was not what held his attention. Perched on the counter was a small, palm sized myrtle green pot with archaic runes carved into it, and growing out of it in neat cramped clusters were thin, long-stemmed, tiny-capped white shoots, wavering in accordance to the light currents in the air. It was set at the side, but still plainly in view, yet John didn’t even seem surprised at the sight of it.

Or rather the dragon was at ease ever since they entered this realm and have not acted otherwise lest they were in danger, so he took to John’s direction and diverted his attention to the store they were in. Everything was in hues of black, red, and gold, above them on the ceiling was a lifelike painting of a lissom Chinese dragon, staring right down at them with a fierce gaze; long bodied, silver scaled with ivory claws and teeth, although it possess no wings, it was refined and majestic in its own elegance.

He was vaguely aware when John led them to a stop before a polished marble counter, ringing the bell for assistance, the towering red wall of precious commodities before them displayed a panoply of herbs and medicinal products in wooden boxes. He gave the counter a perfunctory sweep and turned attention back towards the swaying white cluster shoots not ten steps away from them until the moment John murmured the shop assistant approaching them was a Chinese dragon in human form.

He immediately took note. The Chinese dragon was a tanned, dark haired female who moved fluidly and gracefully, speaking in soft tones as a shimmer of silver scales inched up the skin of her neck in stark contrast to the red of her dress, all the while observing them both as they are of her.

Leaning subtly over the counter to get a better look of the dragon, his actions were of course noticed and frowned upon by John but the Chinese dragon didn’t mind at all, knowing his actions were of curiosity and meant no ill will. With a small smile gracing her red lips, she stood still and allowed him to observe as much as he wanted.

In return whatever he deduced he kept quiet, and watched intently as a long stream of white fog trailed out of her lips, caressing his bare hands in a cool gossamer touch. He touched the tangible wisps with his fingers and John made a draconic sound which the other dragon returned; a friendly yet apologetic sounding croon and a pleasing rumble.

He didn’t know what the exchange meant, even so he didn’t inquire further, remaining silent as John inquired about the product and paid close to a hundred pounds for a small glass bottle of purplish powder. The transaction ended uneventfully and they returned back to where they came from, to  _their_ London with little trinkets they bought from the stores of magical London weighing in their coat pockets.

The moment they stepped onto the other side, they found themselves in a small lane near Baker Street. John huffed, the grin adorning his face widened, and then he was laughing, gasping between breaths that he can’t have the closed case listed on his blog unless he wants to be portrayed as delusional and crazy.

As far as the public knows, dragons are very real and they have begun to accept that gradually, but magic is still mostly a touchy, unknown territory to them, not to mention the unseen _creatures_ living around them. The panic that it might bring, and the possibility of eradication of magic, it would create so much damage and inconvenience, he agree such information should remain unshared. At the moment.

Clearing his throat, he quipped that the dragon’s blog posts needs better titles, and they bickered all the way home, hearts light with feet barely touching the ground as they jogged back to 221B.

The latter event being the focus of a water sprite’s ire started when he pinched an striking pebble out of a private pond of a client, an iridescent pebble speckled with crystals that shone refulgently; a peacock ore. Something he thought would look nice beside the Lapis Lazuli stone he set on the desk organizer.

There was a moment of tranquil, and then came a splash in the middle of the pond, and something swam towards them at an unnatural speed, a swift glide in the clear water, creating minimal waves and ripples. He remembered how urgently John pulled him back from the edge and stepping in front of him, snarling at the body of water, a grating draconic sound, but that was because he couldn’t see the water sprite. If he could at that moment, he would see, as John later described was a surly, lanky being, with skin so pale it appears translucent dressed in a flowing layered gown of blue, hissing at them at the edge of the pond threateningly, eyes bright with power, fingers curled into talons.

The reason for such hostile treatment was all because of the pebble. It was considered the property of the water sprite for it was gifted by another sprite, and to take it without permission was an assault to its person. Honour, rules and oaths are all very important to mythical beings, or so he gathered. John being the PR between them managed to placate the sprite by gifting it with a golden scale he had shed as compensation, and according to their  _rules_ , with the sprite accepting the golden scale; they have entered an alliance of sorts.

John said it was friendship. He wasn’t entirely sure about that.

Reason is the sprite would appear unexpectedly miniaturized in places with water, the first time it happened was in the bathroom sink while he was washing his face. He approached John who in turn asked the sprite who replied something along the lines about portals being accessible to them via water. After awhile, Sherlock got used to its abrupt appearances in 221B, leaving it alone when it appeared in untended cups of lukewarm tea or the kitchen sink, floating in a bowl of water conversing with the faeries residing in the flat.

Its appearances were so irregular, so sudden, he couldn’t discern a pattern, and everyone knows they can’t discern a pattern from a single data point, but he is relieved the sprite didn’t appear in the shower.

His clientele is slowly inching towards the supernatural as his awakened magical talents enhanced and advanced by the day. Many kinds of creatures come up to 221B in request for help, sometimes at odd hours. John wasn’t pleased his sleep was disturbed, but Sherlock didn’t mind since he either sleeps late or not at all, provided the case was interesting enough, and in return their forms of payment were significant and strange.

Once he helped a forest nymph who came upon his door at midnight, so far away from home, crying that her forest was being terrorized by a dreadful dragon, and that the dragon has always managed to elude the elves. They took the case, flying off into the night. With John's help on locating the dragon's lair, they solved it with a unexpected raid into the dragon’s home. The dragon was apprehended for possession of stolen goods, burglary, and other similar crimes.

They returned home in the morning, both retiring into their respective rooms, when they emerged again, it was in the late afternoon. Like always, Mrs Hudson came up moments later with their mail, along with a large jar of fresh golden honeycombs, and a basket of ripe wild berries and fruits with a stalk of red camellia tied around the handle with twine, without asking they knew who the sender was. That afternoon, their lunch was scrumptious, the best they had in awhile, and the rest of the unfinished berries were given to Mrs Hudson for her to do her baking magic, which she later shared with them both, and to the faeries pleasure.

Interesting and unusual as it is to see the world in a different light, he wants to solve human crimes, and inspect the guts of a disembowelled corpse at closed off crime scene. And it’s not going to happen if he has no case, or return texts from Lestrade, nor any calls. The newspaper yielded nothing, other than the picture of him in  _that hat_ with John in a flat cap behind him. His texts to Molly for new body parts to experiment on were politely but unmistakably rebuffed.

The faeries were too busy to entertain him, whisking to and fro, transporting small bunches of herbs from the outside garden into their home. A pair of faeries notably Roseus, the enchantments fae, and horticulture fae, Myrtle, tended to the small growing magical herb plot on the kitchen windowsill, casting renewing charms over it, encouraging speedy growth, and fertility of the soil.

Sherlock lounged in his chair reading one of the aged tomes on fantastical creatures, on light sylphs, and the goblin he encountered.

Light sylphs are described as the protectors of the earth, usually harmless, they possess eternal youth and emit a golden glow at nightfall, hence they are seldom mistaken for fireflies, but that is how they draw people in, and that is when they are most dangerous. They are ostracised from the magical world as 'highly inadvisable to approach' creatures, since they have an obsessive tendency to kidnap people, or creatures that pays attention to them. They are desperate for attention, yet they push people away with their actions, but as stated, they were not aware what they are doing is wrong. There is no record of spirited away creatures or persons turning up after being taken, or what was done to them.

Goblin with the leaf mark upon its forehead. It is one of the species among the many and this particular kind possesses no qualities that are alarming at all, except for its poisonous spit which could paralyze and slowly kill its attackers, while it makes its escape.

He read pages upon pages of creatures, processing the information on the creatures and committed their distinctive features to mind with the help of graphic drawings. Some were interesting, some were not.

He read till he was tired of it and got up to practice casting spells from his inherited leather bound grimoire. New spells were always delicate, and would always take him a few attempts to succeed, but when he does, the results were as described within the pages. Some spells manipulate objects to look like other things, John’s gun could be veiled to look like a phone, if left in plain sight, no one would be any the wiser, although he wasn’t sure if the dragon could spot it pass the magic veil.

And some spells, ironically, were the bane of John’s existence, and that is to make objects blow up. Those spells was a little more troublesome since he had to keep his focus, eyes fixed on the intended object only, lest he wants to achieve additional damage to the flat. Explosive spells aside, he still couldn’t conjure objects into existence like the faeries does, if he were as his lineage suggests as a manipulator of life energy, a creator of new beings, that was rather the point.

After several tries to conjure a single white dove, Blossom the conjuration fae flew in front of him with his tablet hanging from tiny hands with a few sentences typed out saying his energy is all wrong, and he has to let the magic flow like pouring water out of a jug. He tried, still his spell went out in a puff of smoke, and Blossom chirped encouragingly asking him to conjure an inanimate object instead.

So he cast his spell holding an image in his mind, shaping it, inscribing details on it, solidifying it, and as the swirl of white magic dispersed, in his hand was a mug; John’s favourite mug with the RAMC coat of arms which he accidentally smashed in the kitchen. With success, he tried to conjure a few more things, test tubes, conical flasks, pipette tips, which didn’t work. Blossom asserted gently that his mindset was wrong hence the spell refused to yield to his command; magic is used for a greater good, for the benefit of all, not to pacify one’s own wants.

Sullen, he abandoned conjuring spells and practiced casting arcane wards, large glowing runes that looked like the ones marking the walls of 221B. He practiced till he got bored, and proceeded to get irritated at the other faeries for skipping spryly into 221B chirping enthusiastically with brightly coloured flowers in their hair, typically going about their faerie ways, stocking up bunches of herbs for their home, and  _adamantly_  refusing to teach him how to open the unopenable spell book which they hoarded for safe keeping after the Moriarty incident.

Since that night John hasn’t shared anything about what happened at the swimming pool or what Moriarty did to him, he simply shrugged, pursed his lips and kept quiet. His questions about the dragon’s eye colour was ignored and brushed off.

His references to the large volume of magical guides, aged manuscripts and tomes, even the ancient palimpsests he had delivered from the estate to 221B were futile, none of it mentioned the reason behind the vicissitude change in dragon eye colours, although in a tome titled: _The History of Mythical Fire-breathing Beasts; Dragons_ detailed compilation on draconic species stated golden dragons were naturally supposed to have golden irises.

He hassled with the golden dragon in every way, even resorted to bribes but John was reticent and stubbornly tight lipped, only complying to share a paltry amount of information with him, and that is Moriarty is _very_ apt in magic, and that he should practice while he still has the chance. From the way John said that, he could infer John was not usually susceptible to mental influence due to external factors, magical or not, which certainly gave him a deeper insight on the golden dragon’s innate nature.

Closing the tome, he tucked the antiquarian book under his spare pillow and ambled into the kitchen, setting the RAMC mug on the table just beside the veiled gun for John to spot when he gets home. Flopping into a chair, he fiddled with some test tubes, and that reminded him of the experiment on the golden dragon’s blood. He was done analyzing John’s blood some time ago, and he has the analysis filed under the dossier folder titled DR JOHN WATSON in paper and in his mind palace.

RH negative with a dash of peculiarity; dragon’s blood was quite a rare gem in the area of research. According to his analysis, a few drops of blood could heal superficial wounds like small cuts or abrasions; he tested it on white mice, all the while tuning out John’s repeated speeches of him being cruel.

_-“Science, John!” Sherlock exclaimed as he adjusted his safety goggles on the ridge of his nose._

_The dragon disapproved of his ways with frowns and sad glances at the cage of white mice, but stayed out of his way until he stabbed a mouse with a scalpel to test if the dragon’s blood could heal it. He emptied a few vials of blood, it didn’t help much, the mouse eventually died, and after that John took the cage of white mice and freed them into the sewers._

_“Run, mice! Run!” John shouted, and the small group of white mice lingering at his feet startled into a sprint towards the sewers, squeaking a language only he could understand._

_John smiled and then laughed, “The dead mouse name is Paul.”_

_Sherlock watched on, unamused. The faeries lingered around him, chittering and gesticulating wildly, their wings beating so rapidly in flight that the combined force of it disturbed his curls in a weak waver; to curious onlookers it looked like a weak breeze solely focused on the detective.-_

Hence, the research on dragon blood came to an untimely, incomplete end when John freed his test subjects and stopped supplying him with tiny vials of blood.

He sighed as the door slammed shut downstairs startling him out of his reverie.

John has _finally_  returned from his mind numbing locum job. Being a GP tending to typical boring illnesses like the common cold, he could have gotten a better paying slash challenging job at a hospital, being qualified and all, but the dragon said it doesn’t give him the flexibility of time for him leave work and run around in London at the drop of the hat.

_Run around in London…that sounds so good right now._

“Hey,” John greeted as he entered the kitchen, “How was your day?”

Sherlock grunted, pushing himself out of the chair and shuffled towards the living room.

“Eh, that answers it.” John chimed, and then opened the fridge, eyeing the thumbs in a sealed bag and the shrivelled vegetables in the 2nd compartment, their fridge is so empty, sometimes it makes him want to cry, but he is not tired enough to have a breakdown. “I’m starving! Wanna get takeaway?”

Sherlock threw himself onto the couch, curling into himself, and then stretched out again, wiggling his toes against a pillow. Grabbing one of the weighty tomes off the stack on the floor, he flipped through it, absentmindedly processing the words on the yellowed pages while waiting for any kind of response towards the mug, or the veiled gun, “Not in the mood for food, John.”

“You’re going to eat and I’m ordering Thai,” John said as he tapped his phone to order online, “Same as before for you?”

Sherlock grunted again and through the opened door, the faeries came floating in, slightly drained but accomplished. They looked like they had a much more eventful day than him.

There was a comfortable silence, and then Sherlock heard the sound of the tap running, a click, then the banging of cabinets; John is making tea.

“Tea, Sherlock?”

On the page he is reading, the handwritten header is smudged, dotted with liquid stains, turning the words into smears of black, but the ingredients list is still legible, and it is as follows:

  1. _-Hair of your affections: A few strands._
  2. _-Midnight toad gallbladder: 1_
  3. _-Angel’s gift: ½_
  4. _-Regal Milkweed: 30g_
  5. _-Yellow-tipped Lichen Grade 1: 15g_
  6. _-Almond oil: 6 drops._
  7. _-Distilled water: 300ml_



_Optional: Blood of your desired for a stronger effect._

  * _Mix all ingredients listed over heat, bring it to a boil and have it ingested by target within 3 hours, otherwise potency will be considerably diminished. (To obscure the taste, mix it with juice or something of your preference)_
  * _Efficacy will last no more than 5 hours._
  * _Normal, **usual symptoms** after-effects will include: **migraines, dry mouth, dilated pupils and mild rash** , which will all fade with time._
  * _**Abnormal symptoms** include: **paleness of pallor, cold sweat, weakness, or signs not included in the above.**_
  * _Upon which, if left **untreated** , will lead to **death by cardiac failure** over under span of **4 hours** , see **page: 362 for reverse remedy.**_



“No.” Sherlock snapped the hardback close to see what kind of book he was reading, and inscribed in a decorative frame on the red book in a dull gold lustre was the title: _One Thousand Magical Elixirs and Potions_.

Nut the Spell fae chirped and flopped down on the couch head in an exhausted gesture, the bright flowers in its hair stewing all over the place.

John entered the sitting room with tea in the RAMC mug, smiling in a way that makes his eyes go sparkly and crinkled at the corners, he didn’t even ask how the mug came about, he just sipped at his tea, the gun dangling in his other hand the magic dismissed, and that was good enough of a response.

“John.” Sherlock murmured.

“Hmm?” John settled into his puffy chair and relaxed his feet.

“What’s midnight toad gallbladder, angel’s gift, regal milkweed and Grade 1 yellow-tipped lichen? What are their uses? I’ve never heard of them before.” Sherlock listed off and the blond coughed as he choked on his tea, “John?”

“What the _hell?_ ” John wiped his sleeve across his mouth, “W-why do you want to know?”

“It’s in the tome,” Sherlock turned his head to eye the blond who is readily getting a flush, “Why are you flustered?”

“I’m not,” John cleared his throat, “Those are mostly herbs and fungus, with a touch of hallucinogens, deliriant, and typically used in a potion, the kind that makes people...aroused….though the after-effects are somewhat a little troubling.”

“ _Urgh,_ ” Sherlock made a sour face, “don’t tell me this tome is all about those kind of potions.”

John snorted and laughed, “I’m sure there are other potions, another section or chapter perhaps?”

“Hmph. What are the London criminals doing?” Sherlock grumbled, letting the tome slip from his hand to hit the floor with a heavy thump, “There’s no holidays for crimes, where are the murders?”

“That's a bit not good, Sherlock, and you won’t be bored after you hear what I’ve to say.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Sherlock flicked a small red flower onto the floor.

“Did you check your email today?” John asked as he took another sip of tea, and grabbed the detective’s phone off the side table, tossing it towards the supine detective, “There’s a particular email that might be of interest.”

Sherlock caught the phone and sat up. A few taps, and scrolls through his email, he found the read message among the unread ones. The subject title was:  _Missing Diamonds._

“Missing diamonds? That doesn’t categorize as interesting. It’s rather dull.” Sherlock set his phone onto the stack of books and flopped back down on the couch again, Nut chirped tiredly to its fellow fae which lingered over the couch in flight, emitting a glow that meant they were energetic or excited.

“How about a locked room murder?”

“I’m listening.”

John smiled, “I’ve phoned, and he said the local police have been up there, but they were unable to solve the case. He’s anxious for your help, and is willing to make a trip down to 221B.”

“Hmm…”

“I’ll tell him you’re willing to meet him then?”

“ _Fine._ ”

Nut flitted up to flight and disappeared into the realm of safety while the other faeries zipped out the door. They didn’t come back for awhile.

* * *

The doorbell rang at exactly 8.44AM for an appointment at 9.

Their client is a average built adult male, quite well off and visibly anxious, currently sitting in John’s chair, wringing his hands as he stared at the ground.

Sherlock has already deduced the male to be a insomniac, obsessive with punctuality which speaks to his compulsive nature and attention to detail, quite possibly introverted with a mild case of social anxiety, with his eccentric habits and activities he probably has little friends, a non smoker, not an alcoholic by nature but by occasion, rushed over here on the first train, had a disappointing breakfast, takes his tea mahogany, and is currently wondering how to start.

“What is it that you require of me?” Sherlock asked, John sat by his side at the table with a notepad in hand.

“I’m being followed, Mr Holmes.” Henry whispered, looking up from the ground and met the detective’s eyes.

“You’re not incapable of fending for yourself, Henry.” Sherlock answered, already starting to lose interest.

Henry shivered visibly, his eyes dimming for a moment with fear, and he rubbed them with the back of his hands before continuing, “Yes, that’s true, but they don’t come on to me as normal stalkers…” Henry said, wringing the crumpled tissue in his hands, “They’re following me everywhere I go. I left under the cover of dawn today and came to London, I don't think they followed me here, but back there, once, I turned and saw them round a corner, but they quickly disappeared. I went to the police several times; I don’t think they take me seriously any more.”

“What did they look like?” John asked as he pressed the tip of his pen on paper, “And what has it got to do with the missing diamonds and homicide you mentioned in your email?”

“I can’t really remember their faces, there’s more than one. And it has everything to do with those two events,” Henry answered, turning his tired bloodshot eyes towards John, “It all started with the murder of my housekeeper, the police didn’t think so, but I knew it was murder, followed by the disappearance of the diamonds.”

“How so?” John scribbled a few lines on the notepad, “What makes you think something’s wrong?”

Sherlock stared at John and the blond shrugged.

Henry shifted slightly, “Since it appears that my housekeeper took her own life in the middle of the sitting room at her employer’s place. She didn’t seem to be suicidal nor shown any signs that she was, her life was okay, and she wasn’t having money troubles, so it seems highly unlikely for her to do that. The police found a suicide note, and said she asphyxiated. There’s something wrong, I  _know_  it. But I don’t know what, that’s why I’m here.”

Sherlock hummed, “Go on.”

“My housekeeper has worked for me for a decade. A competent lady, quiet, efficient, she comes to the house every weekend to tidy things up and sometimes if I require additional help, she’ll come straight away. Last Saturday afternoon, I found Amy dead in the sitting room, and the next morning, the diamonds went missing.”

“Yes,” Sherlock said, scanning Henry’s seated form, “Moving on.”

Henry took a shuddery breath, and his cheeks took a flush of fever red with his red rimmed eyes he looked manic, but his voice was calm and even, “I was out grocery shopping the afternoon Amy was killed, when I returned, I passed the window of the sitting room, and saw Amy lying prone on the ground. She didn’t look like she was breathing. I went inside the house, called the police and tried to open the door, but it was locked, so I retrieved the master key and thought I'll wait for the police’s arrival, lest I ruin the scene. They came, I unlocked the door and they went in and did the things they do, but they found no clues, other than she asphyxiated evidently by helium. I was a suspect at first seeing I had a key, but all suspicions were dropped since the time of death puts me away from the house, added I had receipts and CCTV images to prove I was in town when it happened. The next morning, when I opened the safe, the diamonds were gone.”

“Did you open the safe the afternoon of the murder?”

Henry shook his head, “No, I didn’t, I spent most of the day at the station having my statements taken, after that overseeing the crime scene cleaners clear the place out. After they left, it was already late, and I didn’t want to stay up any longer to think about what happened in the afternoon, so I went to bed.”

“This all happened a week ago, what changed that made you consult a detective now?” Sherlock asked, running his gaze over the wan features of the man seated before him.

Henry turned his eyes to Sherlock and he shuddered visibly, eyes bright with fear, “Mr Holmes, I think I’m going to be killed, and no one on earth can help me except you. The stalking has recently worsened. They’ve taken to speaking to me on the streets, greetings like ‘good day for a murder, isn’t it?’ or ‘I wonder if you’d scream if I were to stab you now.’ there were other disturbing things they said. And the way they said it so innocuously with a smile sometimes I wonder if I imagined it all. I’m not paranoid, but I’m starting to feel like one.”

Sherlock sighed, “This is all very concerning, but… _boring!_ ”

“The diamonds,” John gave the detective an exasperated look then turned to Henry, “Its appraisal, how much was it?”

“Around…30 million...” Henry hesitated, and John raised his brows at the revelation, “Yes, I know what trouble it would bring hence you’re the first two people I’ve ever told this information. But I still got robbed, I don’t know how though; the diamonds were locked in the safe, a safe that's marketed to be impregnable.”

“Your housekeeper is unlikely to be ignorant.” Sherlock said as John scribbled a few lines on his notepad, “And no matter what they say, the combination to the safe is deducible by the oil deposits left on the keys.”

“No, no, no, she doesn’t know the existence of the diamonds, she couldn’t have, I’ve never spoken to her a word about it,” Henry said, twisting the tissue between his fingers, “And the combination to my safe is a 10 digit access code that appears on a fob, it changes every time I use it. And I had it with me at all times, even when I shower. The afternoon I found the safe opened and the diamonds stolen, I had the fob with me.”

"Do you have it with you now?" John asked.

"Yes," Henry dug into his pockets and pulled out his car key, hanging on the chain is a small rectangular silver tab.

Sherlock leaned forward in his seat, “Someone must have known the existence of the diamonds, if the safe is as good as you said, a normal burglar wouldn’t be able to break into it without raising detection.”

Henry laughed hollowly, and then sighed, slipping his key back into his pocket.

“You look pretty held together for someone who lost 30 million.” John said, tapping his pen against his notepad, “Most people would have a nervous breakdown upon retelling the chain of events.”

Henry laughed shakily, “I do? I feel like I’m falling apart, if I'm already not.”

Sherlock remained silent, staring at the man seated before him.

“Will you help me, Mr Holmes?” Henry asked hopefully.

“Do you have family, Henry?” Sherlock asked after awhile, “Living relatives.”

“No, when I was a kid, my parents and my relatives died when the cruise they were on sunk. My last living relative, my granddad has recently passed. I’m alone.”

“Are you sure?” Sherlock pressed on.

“Sherlock, what are you trying to say?” John asked sighing, pausing his note taking.

“It seems to me that, either of your parents had an illegitimate child unbeknownst to you, or someone in your family tree is not quite dead.” Sherlock answered, “Henry, you might have a living relative in this world after all.”

Henry inhaled a shuddery breath, his body jolted and he blinked rapidly, “ _What?_ ”

“I’ll take the case.” Sherlock stood up and buttoned his suit jacket, “You go on along, we’ll follow behind.”

“What? What? You will?” Henry stood up, surprised and relieved.

“30 million worth of missing stones, a locked room murder, and a possible criminal mastermind, I wouldn’t miss this for the world!” Sherlock exclaimed and he swept into his room.

* * *

“How did you know Henry has a living relative?” John asked he clambered into the cab with their luggage, pulling the door close behind him with another hand, the cab slowly drove away from the curb and merged into the traffic. Outside the windows, it was a nice clear day, although windy.

Sherlock tapped at the touch-screen of his phone arranging for a rental of a car, “The evidence will show itself when the time is right.”

“You  _guessed?!_ ” John raised his voice, dazed by the detective’s answer. Almond chirped in its warm cosy place in Sherlock’s coat pocket, “You’re getting a man’s hopes up for no reason!”

Sherlock ignored John and confirmed the online payment, “Why must Almond come?”

Almond chirped again.

John looked at the fae peering out the top of the pocket, tiny hands grabbing the heavy fabric for leverage. Lowering his voice he translated, “Almond says you don’t need to know.”

Sherlock lifted his eyes from his phone and pulled his coat tighter against himself, the sudden movement making the fae lose its balance, and it tumbled back inside the pocket, churring angrily, “Scolding me?”

John quirked an eyebrow, “Nope, but it’s better if I don’t translate.”

Sherlock huffed, and poked the small lump, “This ungrateful thing, I didn’t mind you filching my chocolate biscuits, but to deny me the answer to your adamant request to follow along…”

Almond chittered angrily again, kicking against the finger prodding it through the fabric, it then emerged red faced from the pocket, and then flew up and whacked the detective in the face, to another fae it would probably be painful but to Sherlock it was merely a pat on the cheek.

John watch the angry fae lay divine punishment on the detective by throwing itself against the pale cheek, but the whacks were just feeble pats, it was amusing to see a fae this harmlessly angry, it didn’t bother him much, but the din they were making in the backseat of the cab is drawing them weird looks from their cabbie.

“Alright, stop.” John whispered, and offered the fae a ride in his own coat front pocket, “ _Behave._ ”

Almond fluttered into John’s pocket and settled, but stared at the detective with a displeased expression.

Sherlock ignored the fae and resumed completing his tasks on his phone.

They got to Paddington station, and then took a high speed train to Exeter.

From there, Sherlock drove them to Henry Knight’s home which was in a quiet neighbourhood, as expected.

It was a three storey white stone house surrounded with lush greenery, providing adequate shade and privacy. A well maintained greenhouse occupied the front of the house and entrance, a teeming enclosure of plants and other potted botanicals. The entrance of which they enter is slightly old, traditional, but the extension at the side of the white stone house is modern in design, and fitted with top of the line technology, it’s obvious Henry is dwelling in this part of the house.

On the separated kitchen isle, there were bottles of chemicals and solvents placed around a microscope with glass slides scattered around, numerous Petri dishes lay forgotten, its culture already dead from neglect. Henry Knight was an experimental scientist of some sort, but at least his kitchen was unlike 221B.

“You’ve taken to sleeping downstairs, here.” Sherlock said as he took a sip of coffee.

Henry looked at the sofa bed with pillows and blanket crammed at a corner, “Well yeah, I feel safer near the exits, if I slept upstairs, the only escape route is down those stairs.” He pointed to the stairs which they saw when they entered, “The house is a little too big for me right now.”

Almond chirped in John’s pocket, but their host couldn’t hear since he was not exposed to anything magical, but John understood the fae’s words. He spared a glance at the detective beside him and then hid his lips behind his cup of coffee, mouthing, ‘traces of magic’. The fae in his pocket fidgeted then fluttered free, taking flight, chirping to him about exploring the house. John gave a subtle nod and Almond zipped across the kitchen and out of the door.

Sherlock furrowed his brows, but made no comment about it, “Let’s see the murder site.”

The sitting room was cleaned, things and furniture were in order, and the air smelled of lavender air freshener, Sherlock wasn’t entirely pleased about that, but he made a short observation on the lock, the doors and then stalked off to inspect the window outside. When he came back in, the two males were standing in the middle of the room looking lost.

“Now the safe.” Sherlock stated, and Henry led them upstairs.

In the room behind a framed wall painting was a substantial safe, Henry took out his key fob and entered the number shown, the safe beeped and he pulled it open. Kept inside were a small amount of spare jewellery, important documents as well as currencies.

One glance at the safe, Sherlock deemed it unimportant and paced around the room, giving a quick look at the chandelier that should have belonged in a ballroom hanging on the ceiling. He then inspected the shatter-proof glass windows, the furniture and spotless walls.

“You said you were in town getting shopping done the day your housekeeper was murdered?” Sherlock queried eyes roaming across the room when something at the corner of his eye caught his attention; he lifted a cushion from a long beige sofa and hummed.

“Yes, I was.” Henry stated as he turned to see the detective stepping onto the sofa.

“Was it a long journey, or a short one?” Sherlock asked as he hit the chandelier with a cushion.

“A short one, I never spend more than an hour out shopping,” Henry answered, furrowing his brows in confusion when Sherlock abandoned the cushion and grabbed the chandelier with a hand and pushed it, the light fitting swung back and forth in the air, “What are you doing?”

“Testing a hypothesis.” Sherlock grabbed the chandelier to still it and then jumped down from the couch, stalking towards John who is observing him with a peculiar expression; he slipped his hand behind the dragon’s back and pulled out the gun tucked hidden.

Before the dragon could ask what he is doing, Sherlock released the safety and fired a shot into the air.

A resounding bang pierced their eardrums, and then, a rain of glitter came falling down on them, dropping onto the ground with soft clear clinks as their ears rang.

Sherlock looked gleeful. John stared, eyes wide, mouth still parted in a reprimand that never left his lips.

“Oh my god,” Henry straightened from his fallen crouch and stepped forward, staring at the scintillating gems of all sizes scattered across the ground, “Is that-  _Oh my god._  How on earth did you  _know?_ ”

“The safe must have been broken into the day your housekeeper was murdered. The burglars have had to know your habits, and your housekeeper was likely the one who broke into the safe since it was convenient for her to be in house without raising suspicion, but she had to have help; external intelligence. I surmise after the sight of the diamonds, greed could have pushed her, she knew you’d never leave the house for long, so she hid them in the chandelier, and then lie to her accomplices about the diamonds being removed by you, after suspicions and attention was diverted away, she will retrieve the diamonds, and take it all for herself. But her mistrustful accomplices might not think that way, they believed she went back on her words, so they decided to pay her a little visit, dispute turned reason for homicide, she knew what was going to happen to her so she locked herself in the sitting room thinking it was safe...”

Sherlock paced the ground, waving the gun in his hand as he spoke, “I’ve observed tacky residue from the latches and doors downstairs, so her murderers sealed all the gaps in the windows and doors with tape, but there were broken lines in between the tape residue under the door, most probable object would be a plastic tube. So they pumped something through using tubes, from what’s readily available to kill a person, efficiently and quickly was- I’ve seen your lab on the way in, you carry helium don’t you?”

Henry nodded, standing far away from Sherlock; anyone would when a person is having a gun in his hand.

“So, they borrowed the cylinder from your residential lab, pumped the gas through the tubes, after she was dead, they removed the tape and cleared the place, and staged it as a suicide. They opened the door with the master key, wheeled the cylinder in, left a suicide note in a copied hand and even locked the door behind them before they left. That’s how you found her, isn’t it?”

Henry nodded his head, "How did they know where to find the key?"

Sherlock smirked, "At the entrance hallway I observed a crystal bowl containing keys, and with your innate nature you must have left all your keys there, organized and easy to find. If the burglars are smart enough to break into a safe like that, then they are smart enough to know where you’ll keep your keys."

Henry swallowed, and then pointed to the gun Sherlock is holding. John stepped forward and gently removed it from the detective’s grasp, clicking the safety on.

“Regarding how I came about finding the jewels, it was a good thing your housekeeper wasn’t careful enough, dropped one.” Sherlock pinched the gem between his fingers, “And that’s what made me think the diamonds hadn’t left the room at all. Have I missed anything?”

“ _Yes_ ,” John said, tucking the firearm into the waistband of his trousers, and pulling his olive green cardigan over it, “The stalking, and the not so dead relative you mentioned.”

“Oh John, the stalking, it’s so  _painfully_  obvious, I’m surprised you need to ask. They were trying to make Henry so terrified of the place he would undeniably leave, and what one does when they are leaving the place for good?” Sherlock stated and saw comprehension starting to light up both of their faces, “They take  _all_  their important things with them, passports, money, and in which case, most importantly, the diamonds worth 30 million. What Henry would do was expose the hiding spot of the diamonds, and while the accomplices doubted his housekeeper’s words, they hoped it was true, because it would make things so much easier. They can kill Henry when he’s on the road, take the diamonds and flee the scene. Mugging gone wrong, no one would think it was part of an elaborate plan.”

John laughed, “Oh my  _god._ "

Sherlock resisted the urge to grin, and cleared his throat, “As for the relative I mentioned, we’ll have to see who the police arrests.”

John nodded, “Right. How?”

“We’ll split up from here. I’ll call for an appointment with the CEO of the vaults company and meet up with him. You'll accompany Henry to town, and see if anyone attacks him.”

“That’s your plan?” John sighed.

“They must be anxious by now, they would be all be waiting to jump in and take a bite out of Henry, so have the police notified and have them arrest anyone with evil intentions, I’m sure you’re an expert with an eye for evil, John, you can help them.” Sherlock said, slipping his hand into his coat, pulling out his phone, “And before you leave, move the diamonds and whatever to a secure location.”

Sherlock said and strolled off, speaking tersely into the receiver of his phone.

Henry blinked, “Is he always like that?”

“You have no idea.” John chuckled, and quickly sent a text to Sherlock.

_Take Almond with you. –JW_

A reply came no later than minute.

_Fine. –SH_

After they picked up every diamond off the ground and searched the chandelier for more, they transferred it into a large drawstring bag, which Henry threw into a backpack along with all his other important documents before grabbing his keys.

“We’ll take my car.” Henry suggested.

* * *

After a short trip to a bank which had some minor issues, the trip to town was eventful.

Their call to the police and details provided was at last taken seriously, John pointed out which men to arrest while Henry walked alone as bait. Several of them were carrying lethal weapons, ranging from military knifes, to silencers, added with the murder of Henry’s housekeeper, not to mention priors on their records, the police could build a decent case against them. One of them was Henry’s uncle, who was not quite dead, living under a different name with a sparkling record of crimes accumulated under his alias, seething and shouting to find the man who set him up. He didn’t seem ashamed or remorseful at all hence Henry felt no sympathy for the man, letting the police haul the man off in cuffs.

With the deadly threats removed, John and Henry had late lunch in a small eatery, and coffee in a small café. The hours he has spent with Henry gave them the opportunity to talk, and it brought them closer, they talked about their individual work, but mainly about Sherlock’s cases. Everyone went about their merry business, and the afternoon was much spent in peace. Peace was something John enjoyed, but not too much, because things get boring.

John abandoned the magnificent street view the café boasted with its window seats and tapped at his phone, “I’ll text Sherlock and see if he has some progress.”

Henry nodded, taking a sip of his overpriced overly milky, overly sweet latte.

_5 men arrested, one was Henry’s uncle. How are things over there? –JW_

John didn’t have to wait for long before a reply came.

_Excellent. Returning soon. Meet at Henry’s. –SH_

John quirked an eyebrow at the text, and said, “Sherlock asks to meet at your place.”

Another ping.

_Henry has to sign a NDA. –SH_

John furrowed his brows, “Sherlock says you have to sign a NDA.”

Henry scrunched his nose, “What? What for?”

“Not sure. Let’s go back. At least, there’s no one out to kill you now.”

Henry agreed, and abandoned his cup of latte with a frown.

* * *

“Please sign here.” A man of 40 pointed to the line at the bottom of the page.

Henry sighed and fluently signed his name on the designated line, “I solemnly swear not to tell _any_ of my non-existent friends about the dysfunctional safe I own.”

Sherlock smirked, and then pulled the safe open, “Many of the major banks use your company’s vaults, yes?”

The man coughed, slipping the paperwork into a file, and tucking said file into a briefcase, “Yes, we were contemplating of consulting you, but you came to us instead. We were told you were the best.”

“Henry’s not the only one?” John questioned, standing at the side with his hands clasped behind his back, “That means the news article a few months ago of a bank break-in suspected to be led by 5 men was one of your vaults?”

“Unfortunately yes, and I’m ashamed to say a commodities exchange was robbed last night. They are missing millions of dollars.” The man professed calmly, looking like the professional he is in his navy suit.

John gave a short nod in response.

“Indelibly linked cases,” Sherlock hummed, “Interesting.”

“There’s a flaw in our security system. Find it and we’ll pay you, money’s not a problem.” The man avowed slipping a hand into his suit, he pulled out a crossed cheque of 5 thousand pounds, “Here’s an advance if you will.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, and was about to launch into a series of caustic deductions when John interrupted him, “You've been going around having owners of your vaults and safes sign NDAs?”

The man looked ashamed, the cheque hanging between his pinched fingers, “Sadly to say, yes. We did what we could to improve the products, and individuals who were wealthy enough to purchase a safe from us have given us their personal assurances that they won’t spread this information around; in return we’ll reimburse their loss subjected to conditions, up to 10 million dollars. Our safes have a high price tag, our bank vaults, even higher, and if somebody finds out another one has been compromised, and we don’t know how…we’re done.”

Sherlock gave the man a steely stare, and said nothing.

“The police must have been looking into who broke into your vaults,” John asked, “Yet nothing stands out?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary, Scotland Yard hasn’t been able to give us positive news.”

“While the Yard’s incompetence is commonplace, there’s something wrong, has to be. I need data, send me all the files you have on the vaults.” Sherlock said, and then started to stroll out of the room, “I’m returning to London.”

The man nodded, “Of course, so we’re done here?”

“You tell me. There’s nothing I can do here.” Sherlock said, and then turned to Henry, “You’ll know where to find me if you need me.”

Henry nodded jerkily, and Sherlock swept out of the room, ignoring the cheque the man extended.

“I’ll keep this for him,” John smiled and pinched the cheque from the man’s fingers then turned to Henry, “That’s the closest thing to a ‘pleasure to meet you’ he has ever said to a client.”

Henry laughed heartily, “You better go after him, Dr Watson. I’ll send the fee over sometime later in the week.”

“Sure,” John smiled, and then nodded his head at the direction of the man, “Nice meeting you, Mr Erlich.”

The man stared, “How did you know my name? I didn't-”

John grinned then jogged out of the room at the increasingly impatient call of his name, “Alright!  _Alright!_ "

* * *

“Where’s Almond?” John asked as they arrived back in Baker Street in the late evening, on cue a little ginger head poked out of the dark fabric of Sherlock’s coat, chirping, "Oh, you guys made up. Isn't that good?"

Almond chirped again and fluttered to the gathering faeries, chirping enthusiastically about its outing.

Sherlock pulled his coat off, hanging it on the hook behind the door, “You better eat while you can, John.”

“Why?” John asked as he brewed them some tea, “Are we going somewhere?”

“No.” Sherlock answered, settling into the chair at the table, turning on his laptop, “I reckon we’ll be quite busy for awhile.”

“Oh, great.” John sighed, carrying their mugs to the sitting area, “I’ll run to the shops to stock up, anything you need, food?”

“Butter biscuits,” Sherlock tapped rapidly across the keyboard, “Apple juice.”

"Anything else?" John settled Sherlock's mug on the table, and took a sip out of his.

"Sticky notes. Yellow." Sherlock said, pulling his jacket off, throwing it over the back of a chair.

“Okay, that’s it then. See you.” John glanced round the flat, and then trotted down the stairs.

When he returned with bags of groceries, the usual evidence wall of 221B was pinned up with papers and orange sticky notes, covering most of the wall were lines of sheer nonsense he can’t read. In the middle of the mess was a piece of paper, crumpled, yet still legible, printed on it was a few lines of the same nonsense decorating the walls, it seems to be centre of attention to the detective since Sherlock is staring at it, brows furrowed. He wouldn’t be surprised if the detective said he understands it.

The faeries were flitting around 221B quietly, heedful for the detective’s need for silence. The printer at the table is still whirling, printing out sheets upon sheets of jargon. Beside it was a ripped open evidence bag from Scotland Yard.

“So Greg came by huh?” John kept the groceries and left the packet of butter biscuits Sherlock wanted on the table just beside the turned on laptop, “Anything?”

“Wrong, it wasn’t the Inspector that came by.” Sherlock hummed eyes fixed at the papers, “And I may have to contact Mycroft.”

“What?" John pulled a small package of yellow sticky notes out of his coat pocket, placing it on the table. 

“I don’t understand Malbolge, John.” Sherlock said, glancing at his phone, waiting, “And before you ask what is it. It’s a programming language. Mycroft has his experts, it'll be quicker for them to decipher it.”

Sherlock returned to examining the papers pinned to the wall, John followed staring at the wall but he gave up after awhile, it was a mass of gibberish to him, and technology is not really his thing anyway. Walking back to his chair, John flopped down into it and picked his laptop up from the floor, “I’ll be here if you need me.”

Sherlock hummed absently, already deep in thought.

* * *

“John! Wake up! John!  _John!_ ”

Something hit him in the face and John peeled his eyes open, blinking blearily and peered at his watch.

11:53PM.

“What is it?” He groaned, rubbing a palm across his face, and emptied his lap of all the crumpled balls of paper Sherlock must have thrown to wake him.

“I’ve solved it!” Sherlock answered gleefully from his spot on the table, holding a half emptied bottle of apple juice, “It’s an equation!”

“Uh huh.” John nodded, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, placing his still on laptop on the side table, his blog post nowhere near completion, “Which means?”

Sherlock stepped down from the table, dumped the apple juice, and grabbed his phone with a few steps he is pressing his phone into John’s hands, “This is the translation of the coded gibberish sent by Mycroft's experts, but that’s not the important part,” Sherlock stalked back to the wall of utter madness and ripped the crumpled piece of paper off, then waved it under John’s eyes, “ _T_ _his_  is the important part. From the information provided, we both know the vault is hard-wired to spit out 10 random numbers every 4 minutes, yes?"

John swallowed, expecting for Sherlock to continue, but the detective looked at him waiting for his response, and he jerkily nodded his head, "Okay?"

Sherlock hummed satisfied, "Hence it would be impossible to predict the code, and the genius of this algorithm is that it proves to show that they hacked the vault’s software, and fed it into the system. In consequence, it spits out escalating multiples of the number Pi, so if you take a 10 digit sample, it’d still appear like the numbers are random.”

John took the detective’s phone and the piece of paper in hand and glanced at them; gibberish, but he got what the detective was trying to say, “Okay...So...if you know the algorithm, you can predict the code?”

Sherlock gave an acknowledging nod, “Precisely, and even after you leave, it would appear like the software is still functioning perfectly. The criminals must have discovered they possess the skeleton key to hack into any of the vaults created by the company, with help or no help obtaining such information, it's irrelevant now, since they were arrested today. We can infer Henry’s vault was a beta test, a trial run, before they moved on to bigger targets, which also meant there’s someone on the inside feeding the criminals confidential information of who owned vaults made by the company.”

John smiled and handed the detective back his phone and the slip of paper, “You got that from just all _this?_ ”

Sherlock looked rather uneasy, “Not without trouble, John.”

“Did you inform Mr Erlich?”

“Who?” Sherlock frowned.

“The man we met at Henry Knight’s, the CEO.” John shifted in his chair then stood up, stretching his back.

“Oh, yes. We should expect him to shadow our doors soon enough, though the balance of probability is, he'll send someone on his behalf,” Sherlock said, flinging his phone onto the sofa, “Since he’s far too preoccupied with having sex at the moment.”

John sputtered, “Wait! Hold-W- _what?!_ ”

“He called me the moment I’d sent a text to me, from his voice, his breathing pattern, and the background noise, he’s practically telling me what’s he’s doing.” Sherlock scowled and bit harshly into a butter biscuit, sending crumbs onto the floor, “Sufficiently frivolous enough to demonstrate that great minds are indeed ruined by engaging in such inane acts.”

John shook his head and sighed, “So we are left with the arrest of original criminals, they are still out there, aren't they?”

“Indeed. I’ve sent Lestrade on a fresh trail that will lead him to them, should expect favourable news from him soon.” Sherlock said, munching on the remaining biscuits, “Go to bed, John. You’ll be no use to me in the morning if you keep this up.”

“You woke me up.” John quipped, clicking the keys on his laptop and sent it into hibernation.

“I wanted to inform you that I’ve solved the case, and help save you the agony of having a crick in the neck,” Sherlock replied, scribbling a few lines of observations on a yellow sticky notepad, “Though your healing abilities will soon do you justice in no time.”

John faltered in his movements, “Oh, thanks, Sherlock. Aren't you going to bed too?”

“Busy, John.” Sherlock stuck the sticky note on the wall among the orange ones, and took a step back to take it all in.

“Alright, see you in the morning then.” John trotted upstairs to his room.

The moment the door closed upstairs, Sherlock threw himself down on the sofa and dug into his mind palace. He reviewed the cases he had during the day, Henry’s case, the Scotland Yard case he was not officially consulted on, yet solved. The similarities, the details, he went through them with a fine tooth comb. And the conclusion he came up with startled him.

_The only person, who is capable of such intricate plans, uses magic and serves to profit from the resulting chaos?_

**_Jim Moriarty._ **

Sherlock jolted and shot up into a sitting position, he turned and looked back up the stairs leading up to John’s room, then looked at the time. 01:53AM.

He grabbed his phone and sent a text to the one person he knew is still up. 

_‘We need to talk. –SH’_

A series of replies came a few seconds later, and the sound of the message tone calms him more than it should.

_‘I'll be made available in the morning at Diogenes.–MH’_

_‘If the case reports I’ve received were related to JM. It’s all under control. –MH’_

_‘You have nothing to fret, brother dear. –MH’_

* * *

On an entirely different note, completely unrelated to this fic, I want to share with you, **the wonderful serendipity** I’ve come across! A line of Sherlock, _not to the exact word_ , but it was **_almost the same!_ ** Oh, how I screamed when I saw it, and immediately quoted Moriarty’s lines.

 (If you’ve seen this before, let me share my joy. And ignore my thumb. Not sure you’ll pay any attention to it once you see what I see.)

If you aren’t aware of where this came from, here is the cover of the book, taken after my senses returned to me

YES, THE PINK ONE. OH THE IRONY. PINK PHONE, PINK CLOTHES, THERE WAS A LOT OF PINK. NOT TO MENTION IT WAS ALMOST, OR IS THE SAME SHADE OF PINK!

_I’VE NEVER BEEN SO ALIVE._

Nevertheless, _I’M SCREAMINGGGGGG._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Leave your thoughts in the comments, it's always good to know people are still reading, and enjoying this. :)**  
>  If you spot mistakes, let me know. 
> 
> Also, I've (once again) created some trouble for myself, and I got too attached to delete them away, so this isn't going to end as soon as I've initially expected. In other words, this might be longer...for better or for worst.


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